Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries

- Asher Roth's existence is so unbelievably funny to me.

...........................Yep. That's it. There's the punchline. I can't really expound on it much more, suffice to say that to me, Asher Roth is like someone getting hit in the groin: universally laugh-out-loud funny, every time. Or, in SAT terms:
Asher Roth: Meg
as
Han's Moleman's Man Getting Hit by Football: Homer:

I've done some soul-searching to figure out what it is about Asher Roth that I find so comical, but I can't figure it out. It's not like I think his "rhymes" are that clever or he's so charming and hilarious in his interviews. I honestly think it's just because he loves college. [Please know that I just cracked my own shit up writing that last sentence. And it's not even funny. It's just simple a fact. Asher Roth loves college. Man gets hit in groin. Lolz^infinity.] After everyone left the Halloween party last weekend, Teresa and I literally sat around my apartment for a good 45-minutes, just drunkenly eating pizza and taking turns saying "Asher Roth loves college" back and forth and cracking up. We're like the Bevis and Butthead of Asher Roth jokes. And again, I use the term "joke" very loosely. And oh my god, and have you ever seen Asher Roth's myspace page?! It's like the Taj Mahal of Yo-Boy. Picking my favorite part would be like picking my favorite star in the heavens. But, I can give you my top-3:
3.) The background picture is a sepia photograph of Asher Roth using his laptop on the John
2.) His PR person's email address is dana@biz3.net
and 1.)
And if you only do one productive thing with your day—call that number. Mr. Roth definitely opens by reminding all of you who got way too high on 420 to "cop" his new album and absolutely closes with the phrase "peace and love yo." You also have the option of forwarding the Asher Roth hot line information to a friend with your personal message. And after a few Kirkland Signature brand Amber Lights last night, that's exactly what I did. Although, when I tried to enter Teresa's number (thanks to my Costco induced buzz) I consistently hit one number off for all 10 digits. So someone with a 351 area code will be getting an interesting message from the Asher Roth hot line this morning with a preamble by Meg McBlogger featuring some uncomfortably out-of-context cancer jokes. And you're welcome.

- I want to do a cover of Asher Roth's "I Love College" and call it "College was Mediocre."

"That paper I wrote last night was awfully wordy, wish I'd had more time to edit
Hit up Subway, watched some Lifetime, skipped my book discussion cuz I ain't read it
Made a terrarium in Bio that was sick, free ice cream in the dining hall so I take a lick
Pass out at a reasonable hour, wake up in time to take a shower
Man, college was mediocre."

- I had dinner with my parents a few nights ago and my mom (being the wonderful human being that she is) slipped me 40-bucks across the table before we left. After thanking her profusely, she looked at me uncomfortably and said, "Just...please buy something healthy with it. Maybe a fruit or a vegetable? It's like when you give money to a homeless person and you know they're just going to end up buying alcohol with it. It's so disheartening." Frankly, I'm not even mad. Because that was a truly humorous and appropriate comparison, and good for her for making it.

- And speaking of getting fucked up, I opened my door last night and found this waiting for me outside:

I am one-part sketched out and three-parts extremely interested.

- Taking mass quantities of anti-depressants is a great thing, because, you know, I don't want to kill myself on a daily basis and such. However, it can also suck. Specifically because I can't cry. I haven't cried in a solid seven months. And sometimes in life you just need a good, cathartic cry. And I don't mean this in like a "OH LOLZ! My life is so perfect I can't even find something to cry about! POOR ME!" kind of way. Because there's plenty of material to cry about—I just physically can't. Which is unbelievably frustrating. I have actually sat myself down with depressing material for the sole purpose of having a good cry more times than I care to count. Because after hours and hours of Trainspotting and Eternal Sunshine and documentaries on blood diamonds, I can't work out a single damn tear. Last Friday, however, I finally cried. So what could have been so traumatic that it could break the seven month cry-seal? Golden Girls. Season 6, episode 9. "Mrs. George Deveraux," featuring Sonny Bono and Lyle Waggoner. I shit you not, that's what did it. Blanche's late husband returns claiming he faked his own death and right when Blanche decides she's ready to take him back in her life, she wakes up—it was all a dream. George is still dead and Blanche is left clutching an empty pillow, looking around her bedroom, alone and confused. I swear to god, my throat closed, my chest tightened and suddenly there was a wet substance streaming down my face. I was crying. And then I remembered the tragedy that was Sonny Bono's passing and started crying harder. And then I remembered that Bea Arthur is totally dead and cried even harder than that. AND THEN I remembered that Rue McClanahan was recently hospitalized and it was all just fucking over. I turned on Rufus Wainwright's version of "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother," took a hot shower and cried my fucking face off. Seratonin Reuptake Inhibitors be damned. So Mr. Deveraux—this Jäger's for you.

- I'd like to leave you all with a friendly public service announcement: if your company has a graphic designer (or a "graphics person" or "graphic artist," as you probably call them), don't make them design stuff for your kid's school. Just don't do it. I know it makes sense because they work for you and you want to look like the #1 Class Mom, but please, don't make them do that. It's so unbelievably offensive. Because we didn't coke ourselves out and stay awake for days on end and memorize the subtle differences between 500 typefaces to design the logo for your son's football phone tree. It's like asking your dentist friend to pick a piece the lettuce out of your teeth after lunch. So please, for me, don't do it. Thank you.

And you'd better come...

That's right, we're having a 2birds1blog reader meet-up! So mark your calendars baby, cuz we've got a date. And Co-Blogger Chris is coming! And Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie! And Tulane Chris! And Becca! And Alex! And Helena! And Anna! And basically the entire 2birds1blog gang! So, I guess technically it's more of a gangbang than a "date." Either way, it should be ridiculous and we can't wait.

Let's show those Jäger bitches that we know how to party and we're worth sponsoring!..............(Cuz I think I'm eating cat food for dinner tonight.) Mmmkthnxseeyouthere!

A very humbled Drinking Game Friday

[This actually has nothing to do with anything, but I feel the need to let you know that I got in honest-to-god trouble this morning with Boss #2 for playing Comcast's "Throwback Jamz" channel over the sound system during our morning meeting. OH, I'm sorry, Boss #2! I just thought a little WSC featuring Nate Dogg singing "Gangsta Nation" might warm up the old synapses at the ungodly hour of 9 am. And if that makes me "unprofessional" then yes, I am "unprofessional."]

[Edit: I am unprofessional. There's really no need for snarky air-quotes and smart-ass italics. I'm currently playing Snood and blogging. I think it might be official.]

Last night's hot yoga class was HORRIBLE. Absolutely horrible. And normally when I have a bad yoga class, I'm totally willing to accept full responsibility. Usually it means I haven't gotten enough sleep or have been skipping the gym or haven't been drinking enough water and have definitely been drinking too much Jäger, but this time, I refuse to shoulder the blame. Instead, I place the blame on Allan: The World's Worst Yoga Instructor.

My sister had been warning me about Allan since I joined her studio. She couldn't quite put her finger on what's so annoying about Allan, but after taking his class last night, I can: Allan talks like Pauly Shore. There it is. Nail on head. And do you know how difficult it is to hold a back bend in 105-degrees when there's a Pauly Shore facsimile barking at you to clench your butt? Impossible. Every time he said the word "bone" I thought I was going to lose it and shit my pants. When I should have been clearing my mind and laying in Savasana, I was running through my favorite lines from Son-in-Law and desperately trying to remember the words to Crawl's "Buff the Wood" square-dancing song. (Thank you Internets: "Now grab a nug whose cones are busty, Weiz her gig and make her crusty! Grab your dude, Don't use roughness, Move in close and groove his buffness! Buff the wood! Buff the wood!)

Not to mention the incredible amount of energy it took to refrain from prancing around the studio doing the Steven Tyler PJ's dance:

And it really didn't help that my sister's name is Rebecca. Bec-kahhhhhhh...Chowin' down and muchin' on some grindageeee... (Yes, I own Son-In-Law on DVD.) (No, I don't want to talk about it.)

Besides it perpetually being a 1993 frat boy movie in my head, I also had an extreme fat kid moment. Perhaps the fattest of them all. It happened when I started to feel a little woozy and decided to lie down and sit a pose out. Allan saw that a few people were losing energy, so he stepped out of the room and came back carrying a hand full of plastic yellow and blue packets. He offered me one. "Oh, sweet!" I thought, "Kraft Singles!" My eyes lit up and I eagerly grabbed the packet, ready to re-charge my batteries with some good old-fashioned American cheese. Upon further inspection, I realized Allan had not given me a Kraft Single. No. He gave me a packet of Emergen-C Vitamin C powder to put in my water.


[NOT:
]

What in the sweet name of Christ is wrong with me that I thought our yoga instructor would pass out Kraft Singles in the middle of a hot yoga session?! And more importantly, why was I so excited about it?? I felt this overpowering rush of disappointment when I realized it was actually Vitamin C powder. I hate that shit. But I love Kraft Singles. Even though it was a babillion degrees in there and I felt like I was about to pass out and throw up at any second (not necessarily in that order,) I was genuinely excited to eat a delicious slice of American cheese. It made complete sense to me that this would be an option. Cheese has calcium. Calcium gives you strong bones. Strong bones are needed to support your body in yoga. Thus, it's completely normal to take a mid-yoga cheese break. It just made sense. But to quote my sister, "It was hot in there, dude. A lot of things made sense." Truer words were never spoken. What's even more embarrassing is that Allan came up to me after class and asked why I didn't use my Vitamin C packet. I could barely get words out. I was like, "OH. Yea. Well. I couldn't open it and I thought maybe I'd save it for later and maybe I'll put it in some tea tonight and I was really concentrating on the yoga and yeah. Just. Yeah." When what I really wanted to say was, "I accepted this Vitamin C pack under the assumption that it was cheese. It is not. I don't have to pay for it, do I?" Fat. Jewish. Humbling. Moment. 2009.

Given the events of this week, I was tempted to make today's drinking game be Pauly Shore or perhaps Jäger themed, but instead I'd like to celebrate another hero of mine—you. 2b1b won 3rd place for the Washington Post Express' Best Local Blog 2009! And while I don't really consider this a "local" blog, I am more than honored to take the bronze! What's even more exciting is that we weren't even nominated. You guys wrote us in and we ended up being in the top 3! And if you ask me, that's pretty impressive. It really shows how loyal you all are and I can't tell you how much the entire 2birds1blog family appreciates it. Ugh. Now I'm feeling all of these "emotions." My "heart" is all "warmed" and I'm crying like a lousy dame. WHATEVER! Let's man-up and take a shot! So, 2birds1blog reader, there's no game this week. I simply raise this shot of delicious, ice-cold Jägermeister (available at all fine drinking establishments and a liquor store near you) and dedicate it to you. Here's to being broke, bored and aimless!

Thank you!

Stay tuned for a big 2birds1blog announcement coming later in the day. Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning! <3

Guest Blogger: Tulane Chris' BCF Breakdown

A couple of weeks ago, I had a nervous breakdown at Burlington Coat Factory.

Let me explain.

I make lists constantly and obsessively. Every time I think of something I should do, it goes On The List. Each day, I try to get some thing done, so I have the satisfaction of crossing something off the list. I wait to rewrite the list until I’m out of room on the page, because the ranks and files of crossed-off tasks are evidence that I can, if forced (by a list) to be productive, I get things done.

I recently moved to Philadelphia from points south, and I don’t have proper winter clothes. So, of course, I wrote “buy thermal underwear” and “buy warm hat” and “buy gloves if I can’t find the gloves I theoretically own” on my list. (These need to be separate entries in case I don’t find everything the same day.) And they stayed on the list for a while until there was a brief cold snap, and I breathed a grouchy sigh and went to Burlington Coat Factory with my boyfriend.

There is a mall in Central Philadelphia called The Gallery. It’s a weird mixture of actual stores, market stands, and a major train station. It’s a lot like the Tel Aviv Central Bus Station, except not as big or surreal, and the Muslims are Nation of Islam women screaming “fuck” into cell phones tucked into their headscarves instead of, you know, actual Muslims. The anchor stores in this mall are a K-Mart, two discrete food courts, and the damn Burlington Coat Factory. The rest is the usual mall filler crap: mobile carts that sell perfume, a bar that has drink specials clearly aimed at non-drinkers with names like “Tooty Slam Fizz” that feature about three liqueurs and no actual adult booze, DVD stores, and various “discount” stores - the ones that technically have a big inventory and wide range of merchandise, but it all looks kind of dusty and post-Soviet.

I hate crowds with a desperation and intensity missing from most of my emotional responses. My definition of a crowd is also fairly strict – when two or more are gathered, I try my damnedest not to be between them. Because I hate and avoid them so much, I have a hard time understanding them. It honestly didn’t occur to me that the first cold Saturday of the season was the dumbest Goddamn time to go to the cold-weather-clothing store if you hate crowds, so to the BCF I went.

No one, not a single person, looks where they’re going anymore. I blame the Obama campaign. He spent so much time looking past audiences into a glorious future somewhere in the middle distance that people started to assume that it was more seemly not to look directly at things, but instead to focus one’s eyes slightly up and left at all times. Then, when someone doing this almost runs into another person, the middle-distance-gazer invariably gets pissed off and says “Watch where you’re going!” This happened about three times before I even got in the door.

BCF is on three levels, and so to help (that is, ensnare) shoppers, there are big signs all over listing categories of merchandise - coats, hats, etc. – with arrows. I’d rather have an old map that says “Here There be Tygers.” Does the up arrow mean forward, or up? Is this arrow pointing past the escalator or to it? The last thing I want to do is browse. I want to get in and out like a bad lover, but the damn arrows are holding me in the bed and insisting that BCF get off too.

I had to pee. I always have to pee. Nervous men with small bladders who drink a lot and take ADHD medicine spend half their lives peeing and the other half saying, “Wow, this ADHD medicine makes me really able to concentrate on trying to find a place I can pee.” I hate public restrooms because of the crowd aspect, because of hearing other people’s bowel sounds, and because I spend so much time in them, but the BCF restrooms added a new insult: I had to be buzzed in. Straight up had to press a button and wait for the buzzer. I am twenty-four years old. I do not have to ask to use the potty anymore. I would have just pissed in the corner, but if I’d gotten nabbed by mall security I would have had to stay there even longer.

So, bladder empty and blood pressure rising, I found the men’s underwear section. I hate buying underwear because of the beefcake packaging. I am exactly average-looking, which is fine. There are people in the world who like to have sex with abrasive, red-haired elitists, and enough of them are lanky brown dudes with tattoos and a history of substance abuse that I’ve been able to have a good sex life. That said, shit. I don’t need someone with no paunch modeling my underwear. If I looked like the guys on the undergarment packaging, I wouldn’t need underwear, I could just go around naked on the porch of my older gentleman friend’s villa in French Polynesia. When I buy a book, there’s not an essay on it stapled to the title page, written by someone smarter than I am. Cookbooks are not captioned “We both know you’re just going to boil everything.” I once had someone tell me after sex that I was the second best he’d ever had, so I stopped seeing him. (Silver medals are for Canada.) Everyday life has enough insults built in without having to print them on socks. This advertising was especially odd because there were no small or medium undershirts. They started at large, and spiralled to a 5X-large for the forklift-funeral set, which… at that point, just rock a caftan.

At this point, I was beaten and bloodied. My boyfriend wanted to stay and look at black-lady-at-church hats (“Put it on, Chris. Chris. Put this one on. Please put on this one with the feather. Put on this one, the on with the feather. Please. Let me put it on you.”) but I had had enough, so I went to K-mart. GOD BLESS K-mart. No one there wants to linger, they carry small garments in plain packaging, and they sell hot dogs right there in the store.

Why Chris will never see "The Fourth Kind"

Halloween is finally over. Not to say I didn't have fun on Halloween, because I had a blasty-blast. But it's the Halloween planning that I cannot handle. What am I going to be? Where am I going to go? Halloween is like New Years', in that both holidays have a shitty planning to fun ratio. This year, my much-heralded costume idea (MIA from the Grammy's) fell through, so I scrambled for a costume last minute, thereby giving myself a lifetime's supply of ulcers. In the end, I settled on "the walk of shame", which involved me not wearing pants, which Meg can attest to my extreme discomfort as I never leave the house without head to toe coverage. I will say, however, if you ever want to get attention on the streets of New York City, don't wear pants. You'd think with people like the Naked Cowboy gallivanting around, Manhattanites would be desensitized, especially on Halloween. But you'd be wrong.

Getting back to my point, Halloween is finally over. So can someone please explain to me why my apartment is still haunted?

When Meg and I lived together in Brooklyn many moons ago, we had a haunted apartment. Pots would fall off otherwise sturdy shelves. Things would move of their own accord. Before Halloween, I carved a pumpkin and put it on my windowsill, only to have it smashed inside my room the next day. We went to great lengths to exterminate the presence in our apartment, including burning sage on a regular basis. I don't think it worked, in fact, we probably just made whatever it was in there hate the smell of sage. But I figured once we moved out of that place, I would be done with it.

If you follow me on Twitter, or if you read any of my posts back in June, you'd know I moved into my own place a few months ago. And things had been going swimmingly until this past September. One random, lame Friday night, I decided to hit the hay around 9:30. I had not imbibed any alcohol, had refrained from my usual nightly peyote. I just wanted to get some sleep. So I turn out the light, and get ready to go to bed. All of a sudden, I get real cold, so I turn over to grab my comforter, and standing right next to my bed is a ghost. So I'm freaking my shit out because holy crap, I'm staring at a ghost. Whereas the ghost is mouthing "It's ok," like she's not dead and I'm having a heart attack for no reason. 30 seconds later, she disappears. Naturally, my first instinct (after turning on the light and changing my sheets) is to call everyone I've ever known and to tell them what just happened. The only way I can describe the ghost is: a girl in her late twenties with long brown hair in white nightshirt (a la Emily Binx in Hocus Pocus). I'm not one to say I believe in ghosts, but it's hard to maintain that belief when one is staring you in the face. However, in retrospect, the ghost looked kind of like Sophia Bush, and this was right around the time Sorority Row was coming out. So I chalked this up to a really intense trailer, turned on the TV (of course, I slept with the TV on that night), and went back to bed.

A few weeks go by, and nothing further happens. After reassuring myself that I'm not crazy and that I probably just drank some expired milk, I logic away the possibility of there being a ghost in my apartment. Then, right before I leave for Mexico, she strikes back. I'm in my bed, and about to fall asleep, and then I feel something tugging at my comforter. Turn over, and there's Sophia Bush's ghost waving at me. Waving. Like we're old friends. And then she's gone. And now I've soiled my bed again.

I'm sure you're skeptical. Hell, I'm still skeptical. Because both times this has happened, I've been by myself and about to go to bed. Maybe I just nodded off both times and had a vivid dream (and my subconscious loves Sophia Bush).

But last night, my bf was staying at my place. We went to bed around midnight or so. Let me preface this by saying that I keep a sound machine (so I can lull myself to sleep with the soothing sounds of ocean or rain or loons. It even has a "heartbeat" function, in case you want to simulate being inside the womb) on the windowsill next to my bed. Anyway, I woke up around 4 in the morning, because I hear a bird in my apartment. "That's not normal," I think to myself and slowly come to realize there's not actually a parrot in my apartment, but that my sound machine is on. I definitely did not turn it on myself, and it's too high for me to have rolled and turned it on inadvertently. I wake up the bf, genuinely spooked, and ask if he turned it on, which he didn't. Oh shit, it's Sophia again.

I've also come to the conclusion that Sophia Bush means no harm. She's just lonely being all dead and shit. Because the two times I've seen her, she's a) tried to calm me down and b) waved at me. And last night, she just wanted me to have a good night's sleep. Still, having a supernatural experience is not calming, and I'm on edge when it's time to go to bed anticipating seeing her again. I don't watch One Tree Hill specifically so that I don't have to see Sophia Bush and be reminded of my ghost. I don't want to run away from my apartment screaming, but I also don't want to not do that. I'm still not saying I believe in any of this ghost crap, because I could just have an overactive imagination and random, flailing limbs. But I'm legitimately freaked out. So for any of you that like to play the stock market, I would look into buying stocks in sage and holy water, because I'm about to stockpile that shit.

Now if I can just find an old priest and young priest....

10 Reasons Why Jägermeister Should Sponsor My Life

I'd like to start off this post by offering a heartfelt apology to everyone who follows me on Twitter. Again. Apparently this is the new theme of the blog. Apologizing to my Twitter followers. Which is quite possibly the worst advertisement for following me on Twitter ever AND/OR the best, because who doesn't love a good heartfelt apology?? (@2birds2blog!) Either way, somebody recently hacked into my Twitter account and is sending DMs to everyone about how I made a babillion dollars online with GoogleAds. Which is completely irritating on a multiple levels. First and foremost, it's irritating for you, and when you're irritated, I'm irritated. (And when Boss #1 is unprepared, I'm unprepared.) Secondly, that DM couldn't be further from the truth if it tried. Because I have made exactly ZERO point ZERO dollars using GoogleAds. In fact, I've made exactly ZERO point ZERO dollars on the Internet period, which has always been a point of pride for me. You see, I have a lot of integrity when it comes to my boner jokes and Meghan McCain rants. I won't whore my ad space out to just anybody via GoogleAds, a-thank-you-very-much. It has to be someone who makes sense for the blog and relates to both me and you. Because I respect you so much. ...........Just kidding. It's a lot more Jewish than that. I just want direct sponsorship so I can cut out the middleman and not have to split my profits with Google. (Although I do respect you sons-of-bitches and don't ever forget it.)

That's right, I'm not above selling out. You know why? Because my dinner last night was a pack of gummy vampire fangs and a box of wasabi cashews I found in the nook between my microwave and the wall. That's why. Because I don't have health insurance and I've needed my wisdom teeth out since 2002. That's why. Because a major part of my laptop is being held together with duct tape and broken dreams. That's why. I'm not selling out to afford hookers and a coke binge, I kind of just want to pay some bills and eat a meal that doesn't come from the novelty candy food group. I feel like if I can make that happen, it would just be the healthy decision.

But who to sell out to...? Well, I have a new life goal/scheme/dream that I've been holding out on talking about for some time and it directly relates to who I want to sell out to. It didn't quite make sense to talk about before, but I feel like this is the perfect time to introduce my new life plan. So here we go: I, Meghan C. McBlogger, want my life to be sponsored by Jägermeister.


That's right. Jägermeister. Why Jägermeister? That's such an overwhelming question, I don't even know where to start. I love Jägermeister quite possibly more than I'll ever love another human being and I am in no way scared of how strong a statement that is. Here is a list of 10 solid reasons why Jägermeister should sponsor my life:

1.) Jägermeister is the only shot I'll take. True story. I've destroyed myself on every other liquor known to man and have 'Nam-like flashbacks if I throw back anything other than Jäger. Vodka? God no. Tequila? That relationship ended at the hands of Co-Blogger Chris and Señor Cuervo. Whiskey? That story involves high school, a basement and a desperate need to look cool. Gin? Repeat last story but replace the basement with a deck. It's got to be Jäger or I'm out.

2.) I can rip shots of Jäger 'til the cows come home. The reason I can still take shots of Jäger isn't because I've never gotten sick off it (because merciful Christ, I have) it's because my body will never, ever tire of being filled with cold, delicious Jägemeister. It's like an abusive boyfriend—I will always come back to it no matter how hard it fucks me up. Let me tell you a little story: one night while backpacking through Germany, I discovered that our hostel had a bar and that that bar served 50-cent Jäger shots. Although we had literally just come back from drinking our own weight in beer at the Hofbräuhaus, I unstrapped my money belt, slammed it on the bar and said, "That much in Jäger, bitte." Later that night I made the comical decision to write in my travel log. I wish it was here so I could take a picture of it, because it was just squiggles and chicken-scratch. I believe the only words you can make out are, "fuck," "gay" and "never drinking again." Normally after a night of that kind of punishment, I could never go back to whatever it was I was drinking. But not Jäger. Now I rip a shot of Jäger and think, "Mmm...Germany."

3.) Best. Logo. Ever.

And I'm a graphic designer. I know these things. It's my professional opinion that Jägermeister has the best logo ever and I would be honored to have it adorn my body. Which brings us to #4:

4.) I live to promote Jäger. How many times have I proposed Jäger shots while out? Every time. What am I blogging about right now? Jäger. What was I not three days ago for Halloween? The Jäger Deer. (See headpiece below:)

And these are all things I do for free! Imagine what I'd be capable of if Jäger was paying me to promote them. In fact, I swear to all that is good and holy, if Jägermeister agrees to sponsor my life, I will get a tattoo of the Jägermeister logo on my right ass-cheek with "SPONSORED BY" above and "SERVE COLD - KEEP ON ICE" below. And I will videotape the process and post it on this blog. I am deathly serious. My ass gets more play than you'd think. That's some valuable advertising right there.

5.) Ohmygod, Jäger-chaps:


6.) I've got big hooters. And what looks better in tight Jägermeister apparel than a giant set of grade A+ hooters? Nothing. That's what. And if Jäger sponsors my life, I will wear Jägermeister apparel to all of my public appearances. And by public appearances, I obviously mean out and about in my daily life. And I go places! I'm around! Whereas Jägerettes stop wearing their Jäger garb after leaving the bar, I'll continue wearing it into my daily life. And how sweet a deal is that?? For example, the sweatbands I currently wear to the gym and hot yoga are of the Nike persuasion—what if they were Jäger sweatbands? See. One step above Jägerette, one step below psychopath.

7.) I'm an ex-bartender. I am more than familiar with mixing a good Jäger cocktail. A Dr. Jäger? 1.5 oz Dr. Pepper, 1.5 oz Jäger shake over ice and serve in a cocktail glass. Storm Trooper? Half-part Jäger to half-part peppermint schnapps served in a highball glass. Ideal temperature to serve Jägermeister? 4-degrees Fahrenheit. I could do this all day.

8.) I don't entirely suck. I just feel like that has to be worth something.

9.) Joy Behar has her own TV show and Obama is president. It's a new fucking day.

10.) Because like Jägermeister, I'm a fucking badass. You show me a girl dealing with her Quarterlife Crisis in a more badass way than anonymously blogging, excessively drinking and crying herself to sleep 4 out of 7 nights a week and I will show you a whore and a liar. You know who else Jägermeister sponsors? Metallica, Pantera, Slayer, Slipknot and Mötley Crüe. And what comes to mind when you think of bands like those? That's right: Meg McBlogger.

I was on the phone with my mom last night discussing my current financial woes and I honestly pitched this idea to her as a solution. "Now Meghan," she asked in her adorable Mom way of being ever-so-careful not to offend me and the fuck-up lifestyle I've consciously chosen, "Do you think this is a realistic option, or a not-so-realistic option?" Why wouldn't this be a realistic option? "Well, what's Jägermeister going to get out of it?" UM, HI. Not only the opportunity to be the official sponsor of 2birds1blog (and the ad space that comes with that,) but also the opportunity to be the official sponsor of Meg McBlogger, the person (and the hooter space that comes with that). I've got the "The Google Analytics." I know how many of you there are out there. And you could all be drinking Jäger right now! With me! At a bar! Enjoying free Jäger track jackets!!!1 WE ALL WIN!

So how stoked are guys on Jäger right now!?!!?!?! [........................meg@2birds1blog.com. WIIIIIIIIIIIIINK!]

How I Got Out Of My Business Trip

Muahaha...it was so glorious. Although I would like to humbly apologize to my Twitter followers for the giant Business Trip Live-Tweet '09 cocktease. Sorry about it. Technically, I feel 30% sorry about it and a more overwhelming 70% really impressed with myself. Allow me to explain.

So, I really was planning on sucking it up and going to the convention. I'm trying to be a less of a...well...how do I say this?...a shitty person these days and was willing to accept the fact that part of being a mature adult is sometimes doing things you don't want to do. As of 4 o'clock the day before, all family members were alive and kickin' and I was swine flu/stomach flu/head cold/migraine/bad cramps/oops-I-just-tripped-on-an-extension-cord-and-twisted-my-ankle-which-now-needs-to-be-elevated-so-shucks!-guess-I-can't-go! free. But then old Boss #1 called to ask me a few "favors." And each "favor" drastically decreased the likelihood of me going and drastically increased the probability of someone close to me spontaneously combusting in the next hour.

First and foremost, B#1 asked me if I would come early the next morning (early being 7:00am) and bring two tables from the studio to the convention. What I wanted to say back to this request was, "Madam, I can barely duck and roll out of bed and make it two stops down the red line at 9 o'clock in the morning. What in the name of Christ's brown eyes makes you think I am physically capable of being in Baltimore at 7 am?!" Instead, ever the responsible adult, I said yes. I did, however, express some concern about whether or not I would be able to fit the tables in my convertible without ripping the top. "Well, obviously just drive up with the top down," B#1 said. Oh, right! Obviously. Because obviously the smart thing to do is to truck down I-95 at 6 o'clock in the morning in my Barbie Dream-Mobile with the top down in 40-degree October weather and two giant tables sticking out of the back. Obviously. But again, I sucked it up and said yes.

"I forgot to tell you," B#1 said, "We have a meeting at noon on Thursday and a cocktail party at 6, so we're going to need to leave the convention early." Hm. "Are these events things that I need to plan?" I asked. "Oh yea. Sorry, guess I probably should have told you earlier." Normally this would have pissed me off, but hearing this was music to my hears for the following reasons: 1.) This was the most advanced warning I've ever been given for an event, ever. 2.) Leaving early? Yes please and 3.) This would be a fantastic excuse to hide in a stairwell and make calls/play Bejeweled on my iphone for 8 hours.

"By the way," B#1 added, "the President of our parent company is coming, so it's really, really important that we're all on our best behavior. Please wear a pants suite, cover your tattoos and I'm going to need you to have a big old smile plastered on your face all day." And with that, I broke. That's when I knew I had to find a way to gracefully bow out. For I had been asked The Holy Trinity of things I would rather be reincarnated into a pair of jean shorts than do. It was official: I had to get out of this...but how?

"To tell you the truth, I'm a little stressed out about our meeting on Thursday," B#1 continued. "It would be a huge account to win and I just want to make sure everything is perfect." And there it was. My Out. Sitting on a silver platter, glistening in the sunlight, just waiting for me to grab it. And I lunged for that Out like it was the last box of Kashi on planet Earth.

"I gotta ask," I said in a somber tone, "Is it really the best idea for me to go to NeoCon this year? I mean, it just seems like we have two really important events on Thursday and if someone needs to stay back and prepare everything, I'm willing to suck it up and be that person." "Oh Meghan, I couldn't ask you to do that," Boss #1 said. "UH, YES YOU CAN!!1" I said, perhaps a bit too eagerly. "Look, we're a team and if you feel unprepared, then I feel unprepared. And you know me, I'm never unprepared." (If you look up "shit-eating grin" in the dictionary, you will see a picture of me, having just said that sentence.) "You're right," Boss #1 said, "But how are we going to get the tables up to Baltimore?" "I mean, we have a courier service for a reason. I'll call them right now and arrange everything," I said. "Fantastic idea!" B#1 said. "Well, it's why you pay me the big bucks, am I right? LOLZYHAHAHAHAH!" "Please, we should really be paying you more. I need to talk to Boss #2 about giving you a raise." (I would have pressed that point, but I didn't want to get greedy.) "Look, we've got bigger fish to fry right now. I'm going to call the couriers and get started on these events. You just concentrate on NeoCon and call me if you need anything." "I really appreciate all of your help, Meghan," B#1 said. "Hey. Don't thank me—I'm just doing my job. Now you have yourself a great evening." CLICK.

After hanging up, I exclaimed (out loud) (and to myself,) "I AM AWESOME!" and proceeded to call my mother to tell her what just happened. The next day I came into work an hour late in jeans and leisurely planned Thursday night's Super Sexy Sushi cocktail party. Which was a raging success and scored me a shit-ton of points in our regional VP! So basically I won like 16 times in a row. Which is oddly out of character and makes me incredibly nervous, as I am not the kind of gal who wins. At all. I'm the kind of gal who loses. Hardcore. And then trips over something and falls on her face. And somehow loses her pants in the equation. And after recovering gets hit in the pantsless groin. And then writes about it on an anonymous blog to make herself feel better. That's really more how I roll. But a girl could get used to this whole "winning" thing...