I've been accused on multiple occasions of not communicating with people when somethings wrong with me. If I'm upset, stressed or worried, I tend to get really distant and cold. I've learned that it's not healthy and generally makes people uncomfortable. But I've been working hard to change! When I'm upset, I let people know. I try not to internalize my problems so much and talk them out with people. I'm learning to share.
And good for me! However, there is such a thing as oversharing. Boss #1 is Queen of the Overshare. And it makes me highly, highly uncomfortable.
As I've mentioned, I like Boss #1. She exudes good energy and I've felt comfortable with her since day 1. I think this has something to do with the fact that she looks exactly like my friend Allison, plus 20 years. Every time Boss #1 walks into the office I just want to shriek, slap her on the ass and have a giggle fest. Then I have remind myself that she's my boss, not Allison, so I better keep my hands to myself.
Perhaps in a past life Boss #1 was Allison and I was...myself. Again. Because only that would explain how open Boss #1 is with me. Boss #1 tells me more than I need to know. About everything. And nothing I want to know about. I hate to be that guy who uses Jimmy Fallon's stand-up as an example, but the following track about his college RA pretty much perfectly sums up how I feel about my co-workers:
The point being: I don't need to know. Please don't tell me the intimate details about your life. Because I just don't need to know, nor do I care. I don't want to sound heartless, but I'm just here to do as little work as possible and still get a paycheck. I have to respect you as a boss; I can't know that you had butt-sex last night. If I wanted a 40-something-year-old best friend to giggle and gossip with, I'd go to mahjong with my mom. Let's just keep things professional.
6 Things I Never Wanted to Know About Boss #1:
- They used to call her "Love 'em and Leave 'em Liza." I don't know who they are. But I think I feel sorry for them.
- As I mentioned a few days ago, I'm in charge of making the (well designed and ADORABLE!) invitations for Boss #1's best friend's daughter's upcoming baby shower.
What I needed to know to make these invitations: boy or girl; when; where; what time; color scheme and RSVP information.
What I didn't need to know to make these invitations: Boss #1's best friend's daughter is 18-years-old and got pregnant, and I quote, "on her sexual maiden voyage."
- A few weeks ago Boss #1 opened up an old can of coffee she found in the back room and loudly exclaimed, "OH MUH LORD! This coffee smells like pencil shavings and cooter!" Pencil shavings. And cooter. If I ever open my own law firm, and I don't know why I would, I would want it to be called Pencil Shavings & Cooter & Partners.
- Boss #1 has a friend named Donna. I'd put Donna at about 45. She's single and attractive in the way that you can tell she was probably once pretty, but now looks kinda rode hard and put away wet. Donna makes me sad because she's all HEYheyHEY promiscuous single lady here! Different man every night of the week! Can't keep this tiger in a cage RAWRRR! But you know she goes home at night and cries over a bottle of Nice 'n Easy Gray Coverage. Basically she's what I fear I'll be in 20 years if I don't meet someone. So I like having her around. She reminds me to keep my eyes on the prize.
Anyway, Boss #1 walked into work one day looking at her Blackberry, walked over to me and without a "hello," "good morning," or "how are you?" shoved her Blackberry in my face and said, "MEGHAN! Check out the dick on Donna's new black guy!" I looked at the Blackberry in front of me and there in fact was an emailed photograph of a well-built, young, black man, completely nude, holding a towel with the subject "Post coital ;)"
Now, I am the least prudey person you will ever meet, but suddenly I was clutching my pearls all "WELL, I'VE NEVER!" I stammered and searched for something to say for 30 seconds before I finally got out "It's. Nice."
- Boss #1 came in Monday morning to pick something up and I noticed that she had a nice tan. "Wow, you look great. Someone got some color!" I said, completely unaware of the can of worms I was about to open. Boss #1's response: "Oh muh lord. We started partying EARLY this weekend, Meghan. I'll tell you what, we had people over Friday at 3 o'clock in the afternoon and we must have finished off six bottles of wine before 5 and then smoked some grass that belongs to my friend Bill's son and WOOOOOO! They make that stuff way stronger than they did in my day, I'll tell you what! Wait, what did I come in here to get? I put a list somewhere and I forgot what I did with it. Man. I think I killed too many brain cells this weekend. Do you smoke grass?"
Now again, I'm not a prude. Sex and drugs? Sure. Good fun. However I was so overcome with emotions of "OH GOD WE SHOULD NOT BE TALKING ABOUT THIS," that the only thing I could do was awkwardly ramble "Um...ah...haha...wha—...I..." until she found what she came in to get and ran out. Then I said the rosary, called my mother and took a shower.
- The Road Head Story. The crèmede la crème of things I never wanted to know. OK. Breathe. So! One day my boss' husband, Buck (real name,) came into the office with Boss #1 to drop off some heavy boxes. "Your husband is so cute!" I said to Boss #1 after he left. Why I said that is a mystery to me. I mean, yes he was cute, but I knew better than that. I knew it would take things to a dark, dark place where I didn't want to go. "Mmm. Yes he is," Boss #1 said. "Poor guy, I've been so sick with this stupid cough I haven't been able to have sex with him in weeks! I felt so bad I decided give him road head on the way here. The ride was so bumpy I barely had to do any work!" And then she hung her head and pantomimed giving a blow job.
I wish I could have seen the look on my own face when this happened. Because I in no way tried to hide the horror and disgust I felt coursing through my veins. My eyes were as wide as dinner plates. My jaw dropped to the ground. Time stood still. Worlds collided.
So I'm super glad that I'm learning to be a more open and communicative person, but if pantomiming blow jobs and flashing dick pictures around the office is the measure of good health, I'm going back to being an aloof ice-queen. And I'm in no way sorry about it.
On my lunch break this morning, I came home, sat in front of my television for an hour of brain cell genocide when I had to make an important decision. Do I watch Bring It On: All or Nothing or Who Wants to be a Millionaire? It’s a common complaint, but out of 300+ channels, these are the only things that even remotely piqued my interest. Lucky for you all, I went for Bring It On, and while it’s nowhere near as good as the original, it is one amazingly bad flick. Lucky for me I tuned in just in time to watch Hayden Planetarium krumping:
And then I had a revelation. Everything bad is secretly good. This explains an infinite number of things: why Meg and I routinely quote lines from Center Stage (Meg is far better at this game than I am), why the Snuggie has its own Wikipedia entry, and why Kristinia DeBarge was able to release that trash heap of a song.
So this makes for quite a conundrum. Meg and I have been brainstorming about a good product to invent to fiscally supplement our current meager incomes. And while we routinely scoff at the likes of the Go Girl and the Kush and the Comfort Wipe, we may need to divert our attentions from the cure for cancer to an Automatic Ass-Hair Braider. I was going to characterize the biochemical processes of motivation, to make a wonder pill of will power, but I should probably look into making something that’ll make your farts smell like fresh linen instead.
When did this happen? When did we stop inventing televisions and clock radios and focus instead on vibrator/razor combinations? Is everything that is worthwhile already invented? Last time I checked my compendium of science fiction movies, we still are in need of flying cars, teleportation, and time travel. So if we can get on that instead, I’d really appreciate it. But I have a theory as to the cause of all this obsession with making the trivial aspects of our everyday lives easier.
Survivor.
Hear me out. Survivor was one of the first reality TV game shows, which was the first time your average Joe Schmoe got their first taste of fame and maybe a little bit of fortune. Once Survivor got big, a new batch of TV shows came out for other types of people. You have your Bachelor/Bachelorette/Who Wants To Get Syphillis types of shows, for the lonely people out there who are moderately attractive. American Idol/So You Think You Can Dance/Whore Out Your Talent for Fame shows for people with an actual talent who are moderately attractive. Deal or No Deal/Wipeout/Shows Where Moderately Attractive or At Least Generally Likeable Who Have No Discernible Talent Compete for Money and Fame. Notice anything similar between all these shows? There’s no room for ugly people on reality TV shows (unless that show is The Swan and you are receiving plastic surgery to be not so ugly anymore).
So now everyone who is moderately attractive (or wants to be more moderately attractive via The Biggest Loser or Dance Your Ass Off) is getting famous and making a little money. What about everyone else; those with, shall we say, a face made for radio? How can they get a piece of the pie?
Well, the majority of them are watching their more attractive neighbors and friends eat bugs with Joe Rogan for money, or race around the globe for money, or remember the lyrics to songs with Wayne Brady for money. But a minority of the rest of them can somehow get financial backing to produce the first genius idea they have while on the can. They aren’t going to get famous (Does anyone know who invented the Snuggie? Didn’t think so.) but they can make a few bucks.
And the cultural landscape is primed for a few moronic ideas. Of course people are going to need something to help them wipe their fat asses, because they are too busy watching other fat asses lose weight on television. And while they’re watching TV, they get cold, but don’t want to take their arms out from their blanket to change the channel because Hole in the Wall just doesn’t translate from Japanese television, so naturally they need a Snuggie.
In conclusion, if Mark Burnett had never produced Survivor, then Germany would never have produced the ShamWow and that guy would never have punched that hooker, and Billy Mays might still be alive (R.I.P.).
So I’m not sure what this post says about me, since I was able to reference all of these trashy reality TV shows. Either I’m slovenly and physically repulsive, or I’m slated to invent the next Peekaru. Probably a little of both? In the meantime, I’ll be working on that motivation pill. Once I work up to it.
I hereby award Tulane Chris 50 points for streaking through UPenn's Hill House on the Fourth of July. Here he is streaking through "The Fish Bowl" under Benjamin Franklin's watchful gaze:
Only a patriotic top hat separating your eyes and his manhood:
I call this one Hats Off to America! (Sorry it's so shaky. My hand was understandably fluttering):
I've gotten a bunch of emails recently asking me whatever happened on the haunted hayride with my boss a few weeks ago. Seeing as I'm a lazy house cat, I thought I'd explain once en masse and save myself some trouble and you some curiosity. (I feel like there's a curiosity killed the cat joke I could make here, but I just can't get there.) (That's what she said.)
We all know that I don't do anything all day long. Well, that's not quite true. I breathe air. And drink coffee. And try to teach myself to write left-handed just for funsies. But besides that I don't really do anything. You see, I was hired to do marketing/event planning for my company three months before our market/eventing planning budget was cut by a whopping 80%. This means I can afford to throw a party once a month and serve hot pockets and 40s. The rest of the time I sit here and clip coupons and research ambidextrous training tips.
Boss #1 and Boss #2 are well aware that I have nothing to do all day. Why they haven't layed me off is a giant mystery that I don't like to think too hard about. On the rare occasion they actually come into the office, I just awkwardly shuffle blank pieces of paper around and type numbers into a blank excel spreadsheet while furrowing my brow in an attempt to look deep in concentration. I don't know why I do this. They know I'm not actually doing anything. And I know they know. And they know I know they know. It's like the skydiving scene in Break Point when Keanu Reeves knows Patrick Swayze is trying to kill him and Swayze knows that Keanu knows, and Keanu knows that he knows he knows and they keep switching their parachutes back and forth and it's like, holy shit who'll jump first?! Totally just like that.
Sometimes Boss #1 and Boss #2 like to take advantage of this and ask me to do random shit for them that has nothing to do with my job. For example, I have two responsibilities today: design and assemble Boss #1's best friend's daughter's baby shower invitations and research how to rent-out Fur Nightclub her daughter's 19th birthday party (local side note: LOLZ, right?! Nothing says "I'm turning 19!" like getting shot in the face by a crack dealer.) I'm happy to do this for Boss #1. For all intensive purposes intents and purposes I like Boss #1. Boss #2, however, is a whole other bag of crazy. I do not like the idea of helping her. Boss #2 is a mean old Mexican woman who scares the bejesus out of me. So when she comes into the office and says "grab your purse, we're going for a ride," I grab.
So, I hopped into Boss #2's unmarked white van, fully expecting to get knocked out and wake up in Tijuana hustling to sell chicle. Instead, Boss #2 just talked about her son's baseball camp for 15 minutes until we arrived at an office building in Crystal City, Virginia. Boss #2 then handed me a pad of paper and a pen and instructed me to pretend to take notes. "PRETEND. TO. TAKE. NOTES." I was there to pretend to be her personal assistant. Because, you know, having a personal assistant makes you look like a more impressive businessperson. I really wish I were making this up, but sadly I'm not. And this isn't the first time we've played this game! She's asked me to do this not once, not twice, but thrice before! Three times I've had to sit in on her incredibly long and boring meetings doodling Mrs. Meghan Ben From Ace of Cakes all over my binder. And the best part is that she didn't even take me back to the city when the meeting was over! She was like GOOD LUCK GETTING HOME ESSE! and floored it.
I mean, yeah we were by a metro, but still! If you're going to kidnap me and force me into some weird role-playing game, I'd at least like a ride back to the city. Common courtesy, people.
Basically she's going around town talking about how she's writing a book about herself "and what it means to be a progressive Republican in the party today." She wants Hillary Duff to play herself in the movie version. You know, the movie of the book that hasn't been written yet. She wants Bradley Cooper to be in it too "because he's so hot."
She describes the book as, "half political and half a memoir. It's like Primary Colors meets Tori Spelling's sTORI Telling. I want young women to actually be able to read it."
Oye vey. Thank you to Reagan from Houston for first sending me this article and thereby first sending me into a rage the likes of which startled even myself. I was too mad to even write a post about this last week. I sat down and started typing and this is all that came out:
But I can do better than that. I can use my words. I just needed to take a few days to cool off and gather my thoughts. So, let's all just take a deep breathe and do this together, shall we?
Oh Meghan, Meghan, Meghan...what are we gonna do with you, homegirl? I can't help but wonder if Meghan McCain realizes why people find her so god damn irritating? It seems like she spends more time defending the obnoxious things that come out of her mouth and less time explaining what it means to be a "progressive Republican." But boo, I'm gonna help you out. I'm going to let you know exactly how you're fucking up and how to fix it. Why? I don't know. Possibly because I'm nice and my heart is too big for this cruel, cruel world. Or possibly because if I see her open her mouth and bring down my gender one more time, I'm just going to snap and may god help us all. So here we go.
Meghan McCain: you are an obnoxious piece of shit. There it is. That's your main problem. If I were a doctor, I'd diagnose you with a severe case of "That Girl." I'm going to have to assume that you don't have any friends, because if you did, I feel like one should have stepped in by now and said "hey Meggles? Stop. You're embarrassing yourself. Let's go do some hot yoga, regroup, come up with a strategy to make you seem a little more likable and try this whole 'politics' thing again." Because that's what friends are for. Making sure you don't look like a total jackass. My group of friends in college had a helpful little trick that we'd use for each other that I think you and your "friends" should adopt: whenever someone was being That Guy or That Girl, we'd gently tell them they were being a total Tommy Gilbert or Theresa Gilbert, depending on their gender. TG. You're beingThat Girl.
So let's say, for example, that we're friends and you're talking to me about how you're totes defs gonna write this book that's like The Cat in the Hat meets The Iliad but for at-risk preteen latchkey kids and your dad knows someone at Mirimax who you gave a handie to at last year's Christmas party so now he's totally agreed to make a movie out of your book whenever it's done (no rush!) and you'll totes get casting approval so Hillary Duff is gonna play you and Bradley Cooper is going to play Obama and you guys save the world from vampire/aliens (Valiens!) by dry humping your way to freedom!
Now, had you said that to me, I'd sit you down and say, "Hey Meghan?" And you'd be all, "Yea Meg?" "You're being a total Theresa Gilbert right now." And then you'd be like, "Omg am I?!" And I'd be like, "Yea...kind of." And then you'd go, "Oh shit, my bad! This is embarrassing. Thank god we had this talk before my interview with Page Six about my upcoming book or I probably would have just told them all that and looked like a giant jackass!" And I'd say, "It's ok M-Dawg, that's what I'm here for!" And then we'd hug and have a big pillow fight and braid each other's hair.
But unfortunately I'm not your friend. So that didn't happen. And you shamelessly Theresa Gilberted all over the place. But like I said, I'm going to try to help you figure this whole "be likable" thing out. So let me break it down for you: You see Meghan, people don't like or respect overprivileged people who don't have work hard for their accomplishments. It's not the American way. It's why we don't like NYC Prep, the Hilton family, Rummer Willis or any of the Baldwins who aren't Alec. People like hard-workers; they like a good rags-to-riches story. So when you woke up one morning and decided to follow-up a children's picture book about your dad with a political memoir that you assume will be so brilliant it'll be made into a movie starring a hot blonde chick, you come off like a real egotistical and assumptive cuntbag. And people tend to not respect egotistical and assumptive cuntbags. Do you see what happened there? Did you catch that last part? You took yourself from picture book author to assumed New York Times bestselling political memoirist/screenwriter/Lizzy McGuire. That's a mighty leap to make. And you didn't make that leap based on hard work and pride in your final product, you made it based on being Meghan McCain. And that my friend, does not make you look good.
What do you think would happen if I walked into Random House today, pulled out my tampon, plopped it on an editor's desk and said, "Here's my book proposal. I call it I'm Tired, Give Me Money. Oh, and it's going to be a movie too. I've always thought of myself as a cross between Tiffany-Amber Thiessen and the fictional character Jackie Brown, so make that into a real person and have her play me. And have my love interest be the hipster with the moustache from Ace of Cakes because I have a mega-huge crush on him. Not Geoff. The other one. Ben. Kay. I'm gonna go smoke a Parliment Light now, when I come back this better be a reality. LaTeR HaTeRs!"
Now in reality, what do you think would happen to me if I really did that? I'd probably be arrested, right? Escorted out of the building and asked to never return at the very least, right? You would be correct! In the real world, that is what would happen. But in Meghan McCain's world, this would happen:
Given the option, I'd rather live in Meghan McCain's world—it seems a shit ton easier and I get to carry a gun. But, I'm not Meghan McCain. I can't fling my tampon around and expect to get a Pulitzer Prize for it. I have to actually put in the work; McCain doesn't. That's just the way the cookie crumbles. But you know what Meghan McCain? You don't have to rub it in my face. That is what makes you so unlikeable. Not that you're blonde or have big boobs or that you're the daughter of a politician or that you're Republican, but because you're fucking obnoxious. And no matter how smart or talented you actually might be, if you keep Theresa Gilberting all over the place, you'll never amount to anything more than John McCain's obnoxious twat of a daughter.
So as a fellow big-boobed writer who will probably never seen a fraction of the success you will, I say this to you: shut your mouth and quit fucking it up.
I'll be watching Ace of Cakes and having some private time should you need more advice.
Ah, Fourth of July weekend: drunk and full of patriotism. Show me someone who doesn't love Fourth of July weekend and I will show you a terrorist.
Early stages of Bronchitis be damned, I will be going to Philadelphia this weekend to visit Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie and Tulane Chris. And we are going to party—American style! We're going to run up the Philadelphia Museum of Art steps and Eddie is going to play the Rocky theme on the kazoo! And we're going to streak through empty UPenn dorm halls! And we're going to finger the Liberty Bell's crack because that's quite possibly the funniest thing I can think of! All things American. All things involving alcohol. All things I can't wait for.
Guess what else we'll be doing! We'll be playing this week's drinking game—The Fourth of July Drinking Game!
(That image doesn't really have anything to do with the Fourth of July per se, but I think I love it more than I love any living human being. So there it shall stay.)
Rules: Drink When: - Somebody refers to the Fourth of July as "America's Birthday" or wishes America a happy birthday - For every piece of shamelessly star-spangled clothing you see (drink twice if it's from Old Navy) - For every hot dog you eat - For every sparkler you light - 9/11 is mentioned - Uncle Rod has a 'Nam flashback at the fireworks show - The Bill Pullman rally speech from Independence Day is quoted - "Now that Obama is in office, I can finally say I'm proud to be an American" (or some variation of) - Fireworks? Is that too easy? No. No, it's not. - MINI FLAGSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1
OK, now I'm going to tell a story about mini flags. That was a rough transition. I'm not going to lie, I've been drinking all night and just took a lot of cough medicine. I'm not really at the height of my game right now. Where was I? MINI FLAGS. Yes. So at school the day after 9/11, we were all gathered into our school's theater/multi-purpose room to watch a televised National Five Minutes of Silence. During the broadcast, they showed people at different locations across the country observing the five minutes of silence. At one point, they slowly panned in on this guy who had a mini flag shoved in the back of his shirt, resting on his left shoulder. The guy was all deep in thought, clearly having a meaningful moment, but then quickly jerked his head to the left and blatantly poked himself in the eye with the mini flag. It was one of those stupid things that's funny, but not that funny. But then I realized my friend Ali sitting next to me saw it and was trying not to laugh, which made it that much more funnier to me. So then I was trying not to laugh, which was making Ali have to laugh, which was making me have to laugh, and it was a big fucking mess. Because we knew that we could not laugh because sweet god, it was the National 9/11 Five Minutes of Silence. Which of course made it even harder not to laugh. And honestly, five minutes is a really fucking long time when you're bruising internal organs you're trying so hard not to laugh. We couldn't do it, you guys. We laughed. We laughed during the National 9/11 Five Minutes of Silence. It was so embarrassing. But we weren't laughing at 9/11, we were laughing at the A-fuck who poked himself in the eye with his mini flag on National TV! It was so shameful. Anyway, to this day when I see mini American flags, that's all I can think about.
OK, well I'm a horrible person and now you all know. I hope you guys have a great weekend though! Thank you so much for reading, telling your friends, facebooking, Twittering and all that jazz. Next week we'll have another Meghan McCain rant, the answer to what happened when my boss took me on a mysterious joyride and other such shenanigans, so check back Monday! Kthnxbye!
Yesterday I was in the vortex of heat and humidity that is the Dupont metro station, just standin', mindin' my own business, not putting "g's" on the end of my words when a man walked by me. But this wasn't just any man. No no no. This man looked shockingly like Milton from Office Space. He was rotund, had an impressive comb-over, was wearing a bona fide pocket protector and of course was wheeling a rolling briefcase behind him. As if this weren't enough to ruin my morning, he wheeled his little briefcase directly over my foot and didn't apologize.
Now, I could go easily go into a rant here about the necessary eradication of briefcases with wheels and the a-fucks who roll them, but let me tell you why he didn't apologize to me (because it takes it to a whole nother level of mind boggling): he didn't apologize to me because he was too busy singing "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" from Evita. I swear to all that is good and holy, just picture this guy strolling through the metro yesterday, haphazardly dragging his briefcase behind him, singing show tunes from Evita and you pretty much have my morning down to a T: A: +B:
= C:
What boggles my mind the most is that he was shamelessly singing at full volume! He wasn't even wearing headphones and singing along to what he was listening to! Not like that would make it any better, just more understandable. But I will not cry for you, sir. I will not cry for you, for you just dragged the contents of your briefcase across my foot without a shred of an apology.
After work I swung by the FedEx store around the corner from my office to send out a package. The chick at the FedEx store hates me because I always write our company's FedEx account number wrong and screw things up. The middle numbers are 722 and I always write 772. As I approached the counter and handed her my package (that's what she said,) the following exchange went down:
Sassy FedEx Employee: How you doin' today? Me: I'm OK thanks, you? Sassy FedEx Employee: Fine. Now you sure you wrote your account number right this time? Me: Oh yea. Sorry about that. Dyslexia: she's a cruel, cruel mistress. I mean—mistress cruel Dyslexia is!
Sassy FedEx Employee then looked up from entering numbers in the computer and stared at me with a look on her face that clearly said, "the fuck??" I know this facial expression well. I give it to other people on a regular basis. And then I realized—I'm this woman's Milton Perón. I'm the weirdo who ruined her day. Not the other way around. She's probably going to go home and have a good laugh with her friends about the fucktard who referred to Dyslexia as a "cruel mistress." Why did I have to do that? Why couldn't I have just said, "Yes, I wrote the correct number" and moved on with my life? And why did I have to go the whole nine yards and make the "mistress cruel Dyslexia is" joke?
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