Oh. I didn't kill myself last night.

Yea. I'm alive. Sorry about that. I received a few concerned direct messages this afternoon regarding something I tweeted last night. It was My So-Called Life quote. Specifically, "There's something about Sunday night that just makes you want to kill yourself." - Angela Chase. I can see how that, added with the fact that I didn't write a post today, go to work or explain any of this, could be interpreted as slightly suicidal. It was an appropriate enough quote though, considering I'm in the midst of a personal MSCL marathon and it was Sunday night and I was totally depressed. But not depressed in like a I'm-going-to-kill-myself-and-post-it-on-Twitter kind of way. More in like a I-can't-fall-asleep-so-I'm-going-to-tweet-this-delightfully-appropriate-My So-Called-Life-quote kind of way. Although if I were going to kill myself, I would totally want to go out on a MSCL quote. That seems sort of perfectly emotional and ironic.

But yea, I'm fine. I'm sitting in a Starbucks actually. Just kickin' it. Enjoying the air conditioning and a hot latte. Watching a man who looks suspiciously like Murray from Flight of the Conchords drink a frappachino. Trying not to stare too hard at this smokin' hot guy who just walked in and interpret the fact that my ipod shuffle just landed on The Pixies "Here Comes Your Man" as a sign that he's my one special someone. I've pretty much never been better.

Last night was fucking rough though. Boss #2 comes back from vacation today and I couldn't stop thinking about how hard that's going to suck. Because she's so obviously going to spend her first day back passive-aggressively blaming me for everything that went wrong while she was away. And these will be things that I had abso-fucking-lutely nothing to do with. And this is all just too much time spent courtesy-smiling and fighting the urge to be snarky, all the while wishing she'd leave faster so I can get back to my MSCL marathon because the next episode is when Rayanne betrays Angela and has sex with Jordan Catalano. ANDOHMYGIGGLES!

Mostly as I layed in bed last night night, I couldn't stop thinking about the burned-out light bulb behind the backsplash of the wetbar. I have no idea how to change it, nor do I know who to contact about getting it changed. I only noticed it Friday afternoon as I was getting ready to leave, but was all Oh Swells! TGIF! about it and figured I'd get to it sometime this week. I should have emailed someone about it then and there. Because now Boss #2 is going to find it and ask me if I noticed it was out. And I'm going to have to be all, "Oh! I didn't see that! Hah..." and feel completely fucking stupid while she stands there staring at it for 20 minutes shaking her head slowly wondering what exactly it is that I do all day long. Damnit. I should have fucking emailed someone. I hate myself.

And this kept me up until 4:30ish. Tossing and turning. But not killing myself. Sorry about that.

One time Senior year, my roommate Danielle very seriously thought I had killed myself. Again, I can see how it looked that way. I had been in the design lab all weekend struggling with a project and just generally hating life when I finally came home to take a nap. The problem with trying to keep your body up for long periods of time by pumping it with adrenaline, coffee, glue fumes and god knows what else you can get your hands on, is that when you finally do have time to sleep, you can't. It's a sick, sick joke. But, I came home, went into my room, turned off the lights, lit one of my Jesus candles, turned on my "Super Duper Relaxing" playlist, put a pillow over my head to block out the light coming in from the blinds and finally dozed off.

A little later, Danielle (who knew I was going through "a time,") came in and discovered this scene: me laying on my bed with a pillow over my head, arms stretched lifelessly out to the side, in a pitch-black room with only a creepy and ominous Jesus candle lit and The Smith's "Sing Me to Sleep" coming from my computer. And Lord knows I'm not the most stable table on the showroom floor, so I can see how this might have been slightly upsetting. I woke up to her standing directly above me, eyes as big as dinner plates:

Danielle: ...........Hey.
Me: ...Hey.
Danielle: ......................How are you?
Me: Pretty good thanks...you?
Danielle: ...............................Fine.
Me: So...what's up?
Danielle: Um. It sort of completely looks like you tried to kill yourself.
Me: [Surveys current state of affairs] Point taken.

Co-Blogger Chris came home one night when we lived together to a similar scene. It was a Friday night and I decided to be lame and stay in. I got Thai food, baked a cake and watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (my go-to cry movie). I don't care how Aspie's this is going to sound, but that night was fucking awesome. Chris came home later and found me in the dark, curled up on the couch, hysterically crying. If I recall correctly, he turned on a light, stared at me for a few seconds and deadpanned, "Uh...Do I need to call a Suicide Hotline or something?" That boy is a saint.

So again, I'm fine. Thank you for your concern. I woke up this morning after 45 minutes of sleep and decided to take the day off. I just can't deal with that angry little Mexican when I haven't had my eight-hours. Please don't judge me.

Everything Drinking Game Friday needed to know about sex, it learned from IFC.

TGIDGF, babies. Before we gets a boozin', two items of housekeeping:

1.) If you live in Canada and requested stickers, they're going out this afternoon. I'm so sorry for the delay. If it makes you feel any better, I'm aware of how much I suck. It's just I had to physically go to the post office to see how much extra postage I'd need...and it's really hot out...and the post office is all the way in Georgetown...and has odd hours...so then I asked my mom to do it...and she forgot...and I'm still pissed about the War of 1812, so it wasn't like I was going to remind her...but then she remembered, so now we're back in business! (FYI: postage to Canada is 13 extra cents per ounce. You're welcome.)

2.) So far, best placement of a 2birds1blog sticker goes to Alex for outside the National Archeological Museum of Athens in Greece. Ta-dow:

Think you can beat him? Shoot me an email: meg@2birds1blog.com

So I'm hoping someone besides me and Laura will appreciate today's drinking game. A few years ago, Laura and I realized that we both had the same disturbing experience during our formative years with the movie Crash. And I'm not talking about the 2004 Sandra Bullock/Matt Dillon/Don Cheadle/everyone you know Crash, I'm talking about the 1996 James Spader fucked-up-six-ways-to-the-weekend Crash. Laura and I were both exposed to this movie at a faaaaaaaaarrrr too young age via the Independant Film Channel. I watched a lot of IFC as a kid because it showed explicit sex scenes, and that was exciting to me at the time. I never had "The Talk." I had IFC. And it fucked me up good.

There are three movies that specifically disturbed the hell out of me:
1.) Crash
2.) Blue Velvet
3.) This movie that I forget the title of, but was about a scientist trying to put hybrids of animals together but he kills all of the cows in his area and runs out of animals to experiment with, so he takes the family dog and combines it with a goat and his wife walks in and there's this half-Jack Russell Terrier, half-goat stammering around the room in pain and she freaks out and I could fucking vomit just thinking about it.

...It's weird when you're 12 and you actually wish your parents had utilized the V-chip because you know you're never going to be able to erase the memory of a stammering goat/dog.

Allow me to share with you the imdb synopsis for Crash:

Since a road accident left him with serious facial and bodily scarring, a former TV scientist has become obsessed by the marriage of motor-car technology with what he sees as the raw sexuality of car-crash victims. The scientist, along with a crash victim he has recently befriended, sets about performing a series of sexual acts in a variety of motor vehicles, either with other crash victims or with prostitutes whom they contort into the shape of trapped corpses. Ultimately, the scientist craves a suicidal union of blood, semen, and engine coolant, a union with which he becomes dangerously obsessed.

The words semen and engine coolant should never be in the same sentence together. Ever. And movies about semen and engine coolant should never be viewed at the tender and impressionable age of 11. Ever, ever. Consider yourself warned. Without further ado, I give you The Crash Drinking Game.


Rules:
Drink When:
- There's a car crash
- Someone dies
- Someone gets a tattoo
- A famous crash is referenced and/or reenacted (i.e. Jayne Mansfield, Nathaniel West, Grace Kelly, James Dean etc.)
- James Spader and Deboarah Kara Unger have an awkward and frank discussion while having sex
- Someone tries to commit suicide
- Someone is bummed out when said suicide attempt doesn't work
- Someone gets incision-fucked
- "I want really big tits, out to here, so the audience can see 'em get all cut up and crushed on the dashboard."
- You want your childhood back

Shudder, shudder...Welp! Thanks for reading and we'll see you back here Monday morning. Should you be so moved to watch Crash this weekend and need a hug, you can get at us on Twitter, our facebook page or shoot an email. We'll get through it together. Have a great weekend!

Thoughts I couldn't flesh out into full entries:

- From an article entitled "Asteroid Program Lagging" in this morning's Post Express:

"NASA is charged with spotting most of the asteroids that pose a threat to Earth but does not have the money to complete the job, a U.S. government report says.

That's because even though Congress assigned the space agency that mission four years ago, it never gave NASA the money to build the necessary telescopes, according to the report released Wednesday by the National Academy of Sciences.

Specifically, the mission calls for NASA, by 2020, to locate 90 percent of the potentiality deadly rocks hurtling through space.[...]NASA estimates that there are about 20,000 asteroids and comets in our solar system that are potential threats. They are larger than 460 feet in diameter―slightly smaller than the New Orleans' Superdome."

Hi. I currently have 45 dollars in my bank account. NASA: you are more than welcome to 35 of it. I just need 6 bucks to get a salad this afternoon and 4 bucks to get my "Yay! You made it through the week!" Friday morning latte, and the rest is all yours. Because I've seen Deep Impact. If I were lobbying for NASA funds, I would simply walk into Congress, sit down my laptop, ask people to gather 'round and show the following scene:

Then I would shut my laptop, do an "AND WHAT?!" chest-bump to the crowd and walk out.

- One of my life dreams is to be a tattoo artist. Tattoos and tattoo culture are probably the most fascinating thing in the entire world to me. I know I only have three tattoos, but If it were up to me, I'd have a half-sleeve by now. But it's not up to me. Because I fear my mother's wrath. Diane is one of God's chosen people, so automatically she's not too keen on the idea of tattoos. Plus I think my parents still associate tattoos with criminals, sailors, prostitutes and prison dykes. When I was living in New York, my (completely magical, wonderful, amazing, miss him everyday) therapist, Bart, was really into the idea of me pursuing this dream, so I started sketching more and more and even put together a drawing portfolio so I could get an apprenticeship. When I moved home last year, the dream will still very much alive. I started researching tattoo apprenticeships in DC and found a woman-run studio in Southeast that was hiring apprentices. Now, you could not ask for two more supportive parents than mine. They support all of my wacky dreams and kooky antics and somehow remain proud at the end of the day. Not all parents would be cool with their daughter calling them up all "Yo! I'm quittin' my job and shacking up with you two to write a comedy blog, sooooo you need to come help me move out. KSEEYOUSOONBYEEE!" But they thought that sounded like a great idea. So kudos to them! However, they do not like the idea of me becoming a tattoo artist. I wouldn't even say they don't like it. I would say they don't even tolerate it. They've made it very clear that if I were to seriously pursue this, they would cut me off. I've always kind of resented them a bit for this. I mean, it's not like I want to be a stripper or a hit man. And my parents are both artists! And I'm an artist! And they've always supported that! I'm just switching my medium up. I feel like they should get that. But they don't, so I get all emo and angsty and writhe around in my bed listening to DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince's Parent's Just Don't Understand, screaming at the wall about how no one gets me and my life is a lie. But then I read this in the Express this morning (man, relevant morning for the Express, huh?):

Police: Tattoo Artist Shot Husband to Death in SE [tattoo shop]
The co-owner of a Southeast tattoo parlor has been charged with fatally shooting her husband in the head and back. Kristin Kozak, 36, known in the tattoo world as Liquidity Jones, was charged with second-degree murder in the death of a 56-year-old Michael Burnett. Police say Kozak told officers that Burnett was not armed or trying to attack her when she shot him.

Yes. That is indeed the tattoo shop I was thinking of apprenticing at. Hmm. Mom and dad―point taken.

Score:
Meg: 0
Parents: 1

- Allison and I want to start a Christian folk-rock band and call it "Thunder Cunt." I can objectively say this is the sixth best idea I've ever had.

- I just had an epiphany. Every time I watch More to Love, I can't help notice that there aren't any minorities on the show. I mean, Kristian is a little ambiguously tan and The Tranny is Israeli, but I don't know if that would fly past the Reverend Jackson. A tan chick and an Israeli tranny = weakest Rainbow Coalition ever. Anyway, in doing More to Love research yesterday, I stumbled upon a bunch of M2L reject audition interviews. They were sad and priceless and LOLz-worthy and I was going to post them today so we could all point and laugh, but then I saw this one:

And that's when I realized, there aren't any black women on the show because black women are too confident. Being heavier in other cultures isn't a huge deal (pun intended,) so they don't have the broken spirit of the over-weight white woman. And this show is all about exploiting that broken spirit for entertainment purposes. How fucked up is that? Imagine how different the show would be if there was a sassy black chick in the mix. Luke would be all, "I know Prom was a very special event that most of us missed out on―" and this chick would interrupt all "BITCH PLEASE! Not only was I there sweeping the floor with it, I was the entertainment:"

Really though. I think Fox should have to legally change the name of More to Love to Homely, Unfortunate White Women in a Dating Situation.

Recrap Wednesday: Homely, Unfortunate People in a Dating Situation

Ever since More to Love debuted, I've incorporated into my weekly schedule what I call "Toot Your Own Horn Tuesdays." On Toot Your Own Horn Tuesdays, I go to the gym, come home, do my nails, give myself a facial, pluck my eyebrows, watch More to Love, and for one night and one night only, allow myself to feel really, really good about myself. Last night I broke tradition. When I got home from work, I didn't go to the gym. Instead, I took a home pregnancy test because I'm a psychopath and the I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant marathon scared the ever-living shit out of me:

(FYI: generic brand pregnancy tests are 50% off at the CVS downtown on 14th street. I'm just sayin'...)

As it turns out, I am not carrying the son of God. However, any feelings of relief derived from finding out that I'm not pregnant were immediately canceled out by the realization that this just means I've gained weight. Beer bellies aren't as easy to abort as babies. Or at least they're more expensive.

And speaking of gaining weight! Last night's third episode of More to Love was rich. Rich like the chocolate fountains from which our ladies guzzle. Laura joined me in watching this week's episode and I must say, it was great watching the show with a friend. It was like sharing a really good, juicy, dirty secret with someone that you've been dying to get off your chest and then you do and you have someone to be like, "I KNOW, CRAZY RIGHT?!!??!!" with. It was cathartic.

The beginning of episode three established two things: 1.) Kristian is in love with Luke in a Psychopants McGee kind of way and 2.) I'm 99.9% sure there's a tranny in the house. Moving on...

This week was Fatty Prom 2009! HUZZAH! Luke arrives at the house and tells the girls he understands they were left out of things in high school because of their weight and he wants to be the man to make that up to them. "I think prom is a very special event that most of us missed out on," he says, "So...WILL YOU ALL GO TO THE PROM WITH ME?" BLOKAY, let's stop right there before this crazy train gets any further down the tracks. First of all, hey Luke―you're a bit of a Presumptuous Patrick for assuming that just because these gals are overweight, they must have missed out things in high school like prom, aren't ya? Because prom isn't like a pair of hot pants; you don't have to be super skinny to get in. I would venture that at least five of these ladies had the time of their lives at prom. I mean, shit! Malissa used to be a skinny, bitchy, blond chick! You know she was suckin' dick for coke all night and having the time of her life doing it!

After promposing, Luke gives each girl a box containing a gown for them to wear. And let me tell you: spangly, spangly two-by-four, can't get through the ballroom door. Although to be fair my prom dress was mildly to moderately spangly as well, so I guess I shouldn't hate. But then again I was 17, and what's being 17 for if not wearing spangles and spray tanning the outline of a Playboy bunny sticker onto your pelvis? (However, those spangles dim a bit when they're on a 24-year-old woman hurling herself at a Harland Williams sound-alike on nationally televised reality dating competition.)

So our gals get glammed up and head off to Fatty Prom 2009! Of course because absolutely none of them have an ounce of game, they all cry on Luke's shoulder and tell him the heartbreaking tale of why they never made it to prom. Some weren't asked. Some just went with friends. Some managed to bribe a date. Some went to the Waffle House on I-95 and drown their sorrows in a bottomless order of Chicken-Fried Steak washed down with a boat of gravy. Either way, Luke promises to give each girl the Prom of her dreams. Which doesn't sit right with me. Because who at the age of 20-something is still dreaming about the Prom of their dreams? As you get older, don't you realize that there's something better waiting for you than Prom? Let it go, boo. Let it go.

Back at Fatty Prom 2009, each girl gets some face-time with Luke in the form of a slow dance. Luke has to teach each girl how to slow dance, because, you know, obviously fat people have never danced in their entire life. They exist on a plane parallel to the movie Footloose where if they try to dance, John Lithgow suddenly appears and hits them about the head with a Bible and shoves a chicken wing in their mouth. I swear to god at one point Luke is shuffling a a chick back and forth and she looks down and shrieks, "Look at me! I'M DANCING!!!" What in the fuckity fuck is wrong with you?? You're fat, not paralyzed! It was at this point in the show that Laura slowly looked over at me with wide eyes and said, "I don't think these people have been rejected because of their weight. I mean, if you can shop at Macy's, it might be your personality." No truer words have ever been spoken.

Later, Emme saunters in and throws a curve ball into the evening: Luke's two best friends from college (Chase and Sam) are there! And Chase and Sam are tasked with picking a Prom Queen, who will then go on an individual date with Luke. Ah, Chase and Sam. One is the only black person in a seven-mile radius and the other has a beard and fo-hawk as big as his heart. God bless them.

After some awkward chit-chat and slow dancing, Chase and Sam pick Danielle as Prom Queen. Everyone is shocked and horrified. Specifically Luke, who as he so kindly puts it, "wouldn't ever put Danielle at the top of his list." I couldn't help but wonder if Chase and Sam chose Danielle as Prom Queen just to fuck around with their bro. But I can't let myself think that. Because it's too depressing to think that even on the show designed to make fat girls feel wanted and sexy, Danielle is still asked out as a joke.

However, Danielle isn't exactly doing herself any favors. Her one-on-one date with Luke can be nutshelled using only three words: a, fucking & catastrophe. But because I'm a sick individual, allow me to elaborate. First D-meister wouldn't shut her trap in the limo. She talked about everything and anything and nothing interesting. At one point, the following sentence actually came out of her mouth: "one time my dad dressed in drag at Sea World and that was like, AWESOME memories." (God I'm so jealous I can't say that.)

And speaking of Sea World, Luke takes Danielle to a seafood restaurant. Which is awkward because she doesn't eat seafood. WAMP, WAMP! However she does drink and, of course, eat dessert. So she proceeds to get drunk and deep throat a chocolate covered banana rolled in nuts. No, but really:

After performing sexual acts on a banana that are illegal in six states, Danielle and Luke take a romantic gondola ride. And by romantic, I mean informative and awkward. Curled up in Luke's manly man arms, she confesses that she's never been asked on a second date and is (drum roll please,) a virgin. Danielle. HELP ME HELP YOU HELP YOURSELF! For you see, a date is like a job interview. I wouldn't go into a job interview and say, "HI! My name is Meg McBlogger and I like to do as little work as humanly possible while still getting paid! Oh and I'm never on-time, steal office supplies, order personal things on the company's Peapod account and will talk shit about you on my blog! KBYE!" Because on a job interview, as on a date, you're trying to make yourself look as appealing as possible. I'm not saying to lie about yourself, I'm just saying maybe don't let your Unfortunate Flag fly quite so high. This miiiight increase your chances of getting a second date slightly.

The next day, Luke decides that he still feels so badly about Heather getting sick on their first group date, he invites her on an individual date. And let me tell you, we could all learn a thing or two from Heather about how to act on a date. Because I say god DAMN, she knocked that shit outta the park! I am now the proud captain of Team Heather, because that girl has got some GAME. Not only is she just adorable, but on the date she was breezy, engaging, funny, intelligent, didn't tell him that she can't touch a man without soiling herself, was genuine and SHE initiated the kiss. Madam...hats off to you. That is how you date.

The next night at the pre-elimination mixer, Kristian gets rull, rull creepy. She corners Luke and tells him that she's never experienced anything like this in her entire life and that he's the most amazing man she can think of "since she's been dreaming of princes and princesses and...I think I'm falling in love with you." Krazyface continues in her confessional to say that this is her "one chance at true love." To which I just want to grab her by the shoulders, shake her and say: 1.) You've never experienced anything like this? You just met him. Just because someone is nice to you for once does not true love make. 2.) You are just a baby child. Of course you haven't experienced love yet. Calm down and stop trying to rush it. 3.) You sound fucking crazy right now 4.) This is not your one shot at love. I cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die that your vagina will not fall off after the show ends. Christ.

In the end, Luke has to eliminate four (count 'em!) four girls. His last pick comes down to Bonnie, Danielle or Kristian. Of course Luke should choose Bonnie because she loves skewered meats, compared bitch-face Christina to the smelly kid next to you in elementary school, and most importantly, hid a doddle of Luke in her cleavage and made him pick it out during the pre-elimination mixer. But, life isn't fair and he picks Krazyface Kristian. But Bonnie has the best attitude about being eliminated ever! She kind of shurgs, looks into the camera and says, "Oh wellz, I would have scared the crap out of his mom," and goes on her way. Oh Bonnie. Laura and I decided you can sit at our lunch table any day of the week. Welcome.

Final Cry Count: 10

Next week: Lauren calls out Kristian for being emotionally unstable in front of Luke! We have our first possible below the belt hookup! Luke dramatically tells Heather he needs to tell her something he's been holding back! GASP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I Didn't Know I Didn't Know I was Pregnant

I spent the better part of this past Sunday watching the I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant marathon on TLC and two things happened as a result:
1.) I may have gone partially blind from accidentally watching the commercial for Treeman Meets Treeman so many times.
2.) I think I'm pregnant.

Because watching the I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant marathon taught me that a combination of the following means you're 100% pregnant: morning sickness, irregular period, fatigue, headache, weight gain and moodiness.

Somewhere in the middle of the marathon, it hit me—I have all of the above. What if I'm pregnant and don't know it?! There I am, LOL-ing my pants off at these bitches while I'm knocked up six-ways-to-the-weekend myself! That would happen to me...

Let's consider the evidence:

1.) Morning Sickness: UM. I refer you to a recent post entitled "I'm too sick to blog, but I puked this up just for you," written not two weeks ago on the morning of July 27th. THE MORNING. What if I wasn't sick from my three-way with two orders of cheese fries; what if I was sick from the blatant baby setting up shop in my person? WHAT IF?!?! Also, it's currently 9:36 in the morning, and to be completely honest with you, I've felt better.

2.) Irregular period: I SKIPPED MY LAST PERIOD. (Overshare?) (Yes.) (Well, sorry, but it had to be said.)

3.) Fatigue: Hi. Have you ever met me? I'm tired literally every moment of every day. I know koala bears who sleep less than me. One time I seriously approached my mom that I had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Her reaction? "Yeah you've got CFS alright. Chronic FAT-ASS SYNDROME!" And then she proceeded to crack herself up until she was gasping for air. Whenever I bring this up with her in a, Hey remember when you said this and it scarred me for life? kind of way, instead of feeling guilty, she just re-cracks herself up and goes into a laughing fit that usually ends with, "God I'm funny!" Welp, who's laughing now grandma?!

(PS: This has nothing to do with me being pregnant, but all this Chronic Fatigue Syndrome talk makes me think of one of my favorite moments in Golden Girls history when Dorothy confronts the doctor who didn't believe she was sick when she had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. True story: towards the end of my tenure at Paper Source, my co-worker Scott and I used to recite this monologue back and forth to each other, ruffle our imaginary cowl neck sweaters (as seen at the 1:40 mark) and pee our pants laughing. And then we were told we weren't mature enough to work together anymore, so (after two years of working there) I quit. WACKY MEMORIES!)


4.) Headache: YES! And my eyes have been really dry and itchy. Allergies...or FETUS?!

5.) Weight gain: Was I not just saying I've been feeling all Fatty McGee recently?! AND! I swear to all that is good and holy, I just emailed Becca last week being like, "I've been working out like an insecure sorority girl recently and I'm toning up everywhere but my stomach, what's up with that?" I'll tell you what's up with that: can't tone a FETUS!

6.) Moodiness: I'm going to let Friday's manic drinking game prelude speak for itself. I'm also not saying that I texted Co-Blogger Chris a slew of racially charged text messages regarding Boss #2 on Friday, but I'm also not not saying that I texted Co-Blogger Chris a slew of racially charged text messages regarding Boss #2 on Friday. Tempers flared...racial slurs were utilized...housecleaning and border crossing jokes were cracked...I'm not proud.

So, 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = FETUS!

And I didn't know! AND YOU DIDN'T KNOW! All the evidence was right here in the blog and neither of us picked up on it! I'm no better than any of those other line dancing, toilet birthing, redneck accidental mothers! Humbling. I suppose I could always take a page from my own book and take a pregnancy test to find out for sure for sures, but frankly, pregnancy tests are expensive and it's a recession. There's always my Italian pregnancy test/enema, but that's one of my favorite souvenirs ever; I don't want to waste it on some fetus that's just going to come out crooked and backwards anyway.

Which reminds me, to my unborn possible fetus, I have this to say to you: you sir and or madam are on your own. Actually, I take that back. If you can survive the following that I've subjected my body to in the past three months alone, then frankly you might be a superhero and I'm keeping you around for safety purposes:
- copious amounts of alcohol
- marijuana
- muscle relaxers
- anti-depressants
- dieting
- strenuous gym work-outs
- Dee Snyder's House of Hair midnight dance parties
- carafes of coffee a day
- sushi
- hair dye
- lack of prenatal vitamins
- increase in resting my laptop on my stomach while using it laying down because I like the way it feels when it gets hot

...I don't treat my body like a temple. I treat my body like a dilapidated trailer park. So I say, game on fetus...game on. Say 'sup to your dad for me:

There's more than just a she-wolf in Shakira's closet...

Shakira. Lord knows I’ve loved you since Mrs. Mosca, my AP Spanish teacher, introduced you to me many moons ago and we listened to Estoy Aqui pretty much everyday in class. And then you released Laundry Service upon the world, and I couldn’t stop listening to “Whenever, Wherever.” But I fear that your career in los Estados Unidos might tend to go the way of Ricky Martin. Not that you’re going to have your sexuality constantly questioned and then overcompensate by having surrogate twins. I just think you might have peaked here already (although “La Tortura” was an equally amazing song).

Let’s take a peek at her latest attempt to conquer the United States public with song. She-Wolf:

Shakira - New Music - More Music Videos

So basically, what I’m getting out of this video is that the moonlight causes Shakira to channel her local Walmart cashier and get long acrylic nails. However, after she gets her nails did, she goes to change into her black bodysuit and her nails not only tear a gaping hole in the stomach of the suit, they also completely detach one full sleeve and one full leg. Apparently Shakira does not put her pants bodysuit on one leg at a time like the rest of us. Regardless of whether or not this outfit now looks like something Heather from Rock of Love might have worn, Shaki is still going to get her dance on at the club.

Where I get lost in this video is the same place Shakira gets lost. In what I can only assume is a giant glittery vagina in the back of her closet. My closet isn’t the neatest place in the world, but I’d be willing to bet money that there isn’t a large reproductive organ hanging out back there. I don’t know why she even walks into it. I bet it’s supposed to symbolize something, like her femininity or something. Or maybe it’s just a fun background in which she can dance.

While Rock of Love Shakira is gyrating in a massive pink cave, Let’s Get Physical Shakira is locked up in a cage. In a flesh-colored leotard. If you’ve ever wondered what Shakira looks like naked, take a frame from this portion of the video and draw your best approximation of nipples on that leotard. And there you have it. I get it. She-Wolf. Locked in a cage. Sexy. Doing yoga? You’ve lost me.

There’s no question Shakira can move. Have you seen her bellydance? She might be the reason so many gyms offer bellydancing classes now. She may have even inspired Flirty Girl Fitness. I wouldn’t be surprised. But when she’s not writhing sexily and actually trying to dance, it’s almost hard to watch. Take, for instance, the timeless moves at 1:12. What do you call that move? It’s almost like she’s practicing for an episode of Family Double Dare, where the physical challenge involves tossing oversized meatballs whilst limboing at your son who is sitting in a giant bowl of spaghetti. Let’s just hope they finish in time to pour a vat of marinara sauce on him for the win. Sometime during the first minute of this video I thought “I cannot wait to see Kristen Wiig do an impression of this on SNL.” And then Shakira does this dance at 2:01 which I’m almost 79.3% sure I’ve seen Kristen Wiig as Kathie Lee Gibson do at one juncture or another. It’s like the joke practically writes itself.

Now I can handle the mangled body suit and the pink cave and the flesh leotard because Shakira is sexy as hell. But once we get to the Footloose segment of the video (around 2:50), I just want to give up. I’m not sure why but Shakira suddenly looks like Beyonce, Madonna, and ANTM winner Naima Mora got thrown into a blender on frappe, then the resulting hybrid was given a Project Runway style challenge to make a dance outfit from the contents of her apartment. What she came up with was a sheer top (made from the screen window) and a fringe bottom (throw pillows).

Luckily this last persona is the one that stays in the closet (presumably with R. Kelly?), although she does look incredibly Beyoncesque closing the closet door. All that being said, I will probably now love this song after having watched the video several hundred times, (also, I have an unexplainable urge to watch Obsessed on DVD) though, as I said before, I can’t see this song being any bigger than Whenever Wherever. I could be wrong though, as I had previously Milli Vanilli were the best vocalists of the late 80s/early 90s. Hindsight is 20/20 afterall.

Drinking Game Friday remembers John Hughes

OH MY FUCKING GOD. I FUCKING HATE THE INTERNET AND I HATE MY COMPUTER AND I HATE BOSS #2 AND THERE'S A PINCHED NERVE IN MY NECK THAT I JUST EXACERBATED WITH ALL OF THE CRAWLING AROUND ON MY HANDS AND KNEES I JUST DID TO REPEATEDLY PLUG AND UNPLUG MY COMPUTER 5,000 TIMES TO TRY TO FIX THIS WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT 1991 DELL COMPUTER THAT I'VE BEEN GRACED WITH AND TECH PEOPLE ARE THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE SECOND ONLY TO BOSS #2 AND HERE'S YOUR GOD DAMN DRINKING GAME. FINALLY. SIX FUCKING HOURS LATER. AND YES I DID FORGET TO TAKE MY MEDS THIS MORNING, AS I HAVE FOR THE PAST THREE DAYS AND YES RAGE IS A SIDE EFFECT OF WITHDRAWAL, AND YES THIS DOES EXPLAIN WHY I'M OVERREACTING AND TYPING IN CAPS BUT WHATEVS. OK? GOOD. LET'S MOVE ON. HERE. DRINK.

---------------

Last night was a roller coaster of emotion, you guys. It started when Ronald, of has a clubbed foot fame, came into my office right before I left work and invited me to see the one-man play he wrote, directed, produced and stars in next month. I said YES and please. I didn't ask too many questions about it, but I'm praying to god it's a semi-autobiographical musical...

Riding that high, I went to the gym where I was immediately hit by a low: my gym crush wasn't there. I have a gym crush by the way. Tee hee ha ha hee hee hooo...He's a giant dreamy dream boat that I just want to sail away on. His name is Kyle. (In my mind. Clearly, I've never talked to him, nor do I have plans to ever talk to him. Because that would just be crazy.) Kyle is a veterinarian for sick and lonely pugs, owns his own row house on Capitol Hill and moonlights as a cage fighter. He's the best. He also has the best ass and calves you will ever see. I know this because I frequently stare at them. And by stare, I mean unabashedly gawk. Kyle has turned me into the person I hate: a starer. Because the only thing that gets me through my time at the gym is staring at Kyle's tight little ass bobbin' up and down on the treadmill. And I mean that in the most creepy way possible. I just shamelessly, shamelessly stare. Which is embarrassing because we're both facing the same mirrored wall and sometimes I'll look up from his ass and into his eyes and realize they're staring right back. With a look of concern. But if he doesn't want me to stare at him, maybe he shouldn't always pick the treadmill in front of my bike. Plus he wouldn't dress like that if he didn't want it...

After the gym, I moped all the way back to my apartment where my mood was immediately turned around. For in my mailbox was the most glorious treasure awaiting from a reader in John McCain's office—an autographed JMcC photo and bumper sticker:


God yes. Who has two thumbs, cleared a wall and is going frame shopping this weekend? This girl. After prancing around my apartment for a few minutes, I hopped on the couch in high spirits and turned on the So You Think You Can Dance finale just in time to see my boy Evan get kicked off. Buzz kill. And that's when I looked down to see a blinking gchat message from Becky that said the unthinkable:

Becky: dude john hughes died
me: SHUT YOUR FUCKING FACE
HE DID NOT
STOP LYING
Becky: he did!! i'm like totally freaking out
59
heart attack

I was shocked. Shocked and hurt and destroyed. I looked to my John McCain photo propped against the wall for comfort, just in time to see it FALL OVER. And it fell HARD. Sigh...

What is there to say about the genius of John Hughes that hasn't already been said? I mean, he's the man who wrote perhaps one of the greatest cut downs in cinematic history:

"You're what the french call les incompetent."

No sir, you are les incompetent. Les incompetent, at staying alive. (Sorry. That was uncalled for. I don't deal with grief very well. Or any other emotions for that matter.)

It's with sadness in my heart and gentle rub of Molly Ringwald's shoulder that I present to you The John Hughes Movie Drinking Game.

Rules:
Drink For:
- Every evil teacher/principal authority figure (i.e. Principal Ed Rooney in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Richard Vernon in Breakfast Club etc.)
- Every character played by a brat packer
- Every stolen car (see: Ferris Bueller, Sixteen Candles etc.)
- Andrew Dice Clay cameo (see: Pretty in Pink)
- Unapologetically racist character names that would only fly in the '80's (i.e. Long Duck Dong)
- Every song that plays by The Smiths, Modern English, Billy Idol, Temple City Kazoo Orchestra or Simple Minds
- Any school dance scene (chug if it's a prom)
- [Sidenote: did you know that John Hughes wrote Maid in Manhattan? No? Well, drink.]
- Anyone kisses
- Panties are shown
- The term "richie" is used, or a poor kid is mean to a rich kid
- Conversely, a rich kid is mean to a poor kid
- Every reference to a "woobie"
- Personalized license plate shown
- Pair of boobs shown
- Gym class scene
- Reference to Chicago or a Chicago sports team
- Heart-to-heart between Molly Ringwald's character and her dad
- "Hey Howard, there's your Chinaman."


R.I.P. John Hughes...R.I.P.