Having it all together

You might be a semi real grown up if one of your classmates tells you “everyone thinks you’re very together” and you don’t spit out your angry balls** in her face from laughing so hard. On the one hand, I’m flattered because I tried (semi) hard my whole college career to make it seem like I was a together, competent, almost-professional. From insisting that I had car sickness on a Tuesday when I made my supervisor pull over so I could throw up at a gas station, to occasionally sleeping in my clothes so I could wake up and make it to class in five minutes, I always put on a good facade. But no one ever fell for it. Maybe it was because most of my classmates saw me out at the bar Tuesday-Sunday, or maybe it was because my housemates and I once won a $50 bar tab by winning Quizzo for which the topic was “dirty minds,” or maybe it was because I called the bar “home” as much as I called it by name. 

On the other hand, I’m horrified. Have I really reached the point where I can be wearing a Tiki mask and holding a drink which is the combination of hard cider and CINNAMON FLAVORED WHISKEY and someone still tells me I really give off the appearance of having it all together? Is it wrong that I miss when people would see me Sunday mornings and shake their head in a way that kind of said “thank god for you because you set the baseline for being a mess and I’m below it”?

Mostly though, I’m confused. I guess it’s because I’m with myself all day so I frequently catch myself in moments of not very togetherness. Like, not two minutes ago when I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, “you look kind of heavy” and then grabbed myself a beer from the fridge. Or when I had to skip dinner because I was too full from eating so many cookies (which I ate because I wanted them gone so as not to tempt me in the future). Or when the guy at the liquor store stopped ID-ing me and started greeting me by name.

It’s kind of comforting to know that “having it all together” is a matter of perception. Next time you see a person who really seems to have it figured out, keep in mind that she probably goes home and strips in her living room because wearing professional clothes makes her want to cry. (Or maybe thats just me?)

**angry balls= angry orchard cider and fireball. Sicko.


Running out of wine (and how it’s kind of a metaphor for my life)

A time will come shortly after you graduate college when you’re too old to drink like you used to but you’re also too young to accept that fact. It will be during this time that you will find yourself having a glass of wine with dinner every. Damn. Night. And it’s kind of sad because you’re drinking wine because you genuinely like the taste AND it’s from a bottle not a box AND you (almost) never get a wine hangover because you’re only having a glass. It’s weird. And then the wine runs out and you find a bottle of vodka in your freezer literally LEFT OVER FROM SENIOR WEEK and you make yourself and mixie and you wonder how you got to where you are. And that’s when you write a blog.

Once when I was in London, my friends and I wanted to have beer olympics. One thing led to another and we ended up playing with Strongbow (a cider brand that should be put in jail for trying to kill me via hangover multiple times). After drinking 20 liters of Strongbow between ten people, I looked around and I weirdly had a Gyro in my hand that I didn’t remember ordering/leaving the apartment to get. One of my friends was drunkenly constructing a trophy out of Strongbow bottles while muttering “this was my life for two years,” and another friend was screaming “IT WON’T BE FUNNY WHEN I’M DEAD TOMORROW.” I was confused how any of these events had happened independently let alone how they were connected in any way. It was surreal and I couldn’t make sense of it. My point is that THAT is kind of how I feel every morning I wake up and I remember I’m not in college. Except in this scenario I don’t go home and drunkenly email my boyfriend to tell him that he has “the emotional capacity of a caterpillar” because I’m a fucking grown up and vodka just doesn’t inspire me to write scathing emails in the same way Strongbow always did.

If you’ve read this far, you’re probably currently compiling a list of AA meetings in my areas to gently send my way with the subject line “something to think about.” Well, that’s rude because passive aggressive (mostly aggressive) emails are clearly MY thing and also if you’re thinking that way you’re obviously still in college and you don’t understand how I feel. Talk to me when you graduate and you run out of wine and the wine is kind of a metaphor for your life.

…….And now I need a drink.

How to be really good at senior year

Tomorrow marks the first day in four years that my college will be starting without me in attendance. If you’re wondering how I’m coping: I’m not. Yesterday, I told my mom I would rather be dead than not go back to school but I quickly took it back when I realized I was in fact NOT going back to school and yet here I was, alive.
Because I can’t be a college student for the rest of my life (not for lack of trying), I’ve compiled some tips for how to be really good at senior year:

Call the bouncer/owner at your favorite bar “mom.” Plan to only to it when speaking about her to others, but get drunk enough that you definitely, definitely call her mom to her face at least once a weekend. Get so drunk that you actually start treating her like your mom. Cry in her arms. Hug her a lot. Ask her to take selfies with you. Apologize when you are too drunk “in her home.” Thank her when she has one of her employees make sure you “get home safe.”
I have done all of the above and it definitely pays off on your birthday weekend when the bar is too crowded and she isn’t letting people in but then she sees your face and ushers you past everyone else. It also helps to point at your crown and tell her you’re going to “lose it if I’m not home for my birthday.”

Order champagne at the bar. Nothing says “smiling through tears” like drinking $12 champagne out of the bottle. You’ll also make a ton of friends, if you consider friends to be people who disappear once the bottle is empty, which I do.

Lose your fear of dancing. It helps to embrace one move and do it to every single song no matter what. When in doubt, just spin in circles.

Make a mends. Maybe a rude lax bro made fun of you once sophomore year and you hold a grudge. Maybe a rude lax bro spread rumors about you when you were a freshman, maybe a lax bro loved you on the weekends but then ignored you during the week. Wait, I’m seeing a pattern. Fuck lax bros. Don’t make a mends, ignore them completely (unless they have a bottle of champagne in their hands…then, make a mends.)

Wednesday is the new Thursday. Tuesday is the new Wednesday, and Sunday is the new saturday. Maybe take Monday off.

When your friend asks you to go out, say yes. Literally, always just do it. Even if your friend may be developing an alcohol dependency, go out with her and just hope the habit ends after graduation.

Crying at the bar is no longer a taboo and it will actually get you a ton of free drinks.

If you feel like shit about the way you look, just put on dark lipstick.

Pregame every outing. Even if you’re going to your bar for unlimited beer, definitely pregame. Show up with all your friends way drunker than everyone at the bar. Pregame so much that people are prompted to ask how early you started drinking.

Bring a flask out with you. Add vodka to your vodka. Add vodka to your beer if you wanna remember nothing and tweet weird things when you get home. Yell at your friend who thought it would be a good idea to put vodka in your beer, pray for death when you have a weird beer-ka hangover, bargain with God and tell him you’ll never drink again, curse everything and everyone, but then half seriously suggest you add vodka to your beer every weekend because OMG I think I had so much fun.

Stand near a garbage can at the bar so you can throw up without having to stop dancing.

Cry. Cry a lot. Hug people you have never even liked. Look around the bar and think “I’ll never see a lot of these people again in a few months.” Let that fact terrify you or let it comfort you. Don’t ever let the crying get in the way of the drinking.

During our senior week kickoff party, there was this dumbass sign with that Dr. Suess quote…”Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” Quite frankly, at the time, it infuriated me. How am I suppose to not cry? Seriously? But now, I get it. Every single moment I spent in my favorite bar was perfection. Maybe you won’t know what a deductible is, maybe you won’t understand how to negotiate a salary, maybe your college education left you feeling utterly unequipped for the real world, but at least you will know how to nurse a hangover from cheap alcohol, and at least you will have friends that you can FaceTime at 7am on Sunday mornings to talk about how drunk you still are before falling back to sleep.

And you…are the wolfettes

Freshman year, the girl that lived down the hall from me asked the cleaning lady to not even bother coming into her room because basically, it was un-cleanable. The floor was not visible under the beer cans and someone was constantly in her room that had been drinking since at least 10am.
Obviously, we connected instantly. The state of her room should have tipped me off to the state we would get in when we hung out, but the thing was, the impression she did of my roommate (who at the time, I found insufferable) was spot on, and she always offered me free beer. The basis of a good friendship.
So sometime in my first month of college, I found myself with her in a house which was dubbed (by the boys that lived there) the “wolf den.” One of the boys referred to himself at the alpha wolf…there was definitely some Napoleon complex shit going on, because he was about five foot four and yet still had a weird hold over the rest of his roommates (and admittedly, us). One night, he looked at us super seriously and said “I’m the alpha wolf…this is the wolf pack…you’re in the wolf den…and you guys…are the wolfettes.” Glances were exchanged briefly before we nodded our heads in agreement. I think we had been inducted into a cult?

It became a tradition every Saturday morning that we would wake up hungover, go to brunch, piece together what happened at the wolf den the night before (“I think the kid I made out with was Middle Eastern” “WHAT…he was Italian, get out of here.” “We didn’t make out in front of anyone!” “Girl…everyone saw you…your feet were off the ground for most of the night” and so on.) After the unfortunate stories came to light, we vowed to never, ever, go to the wold den ever again.

By the end of brunch, we were discussing what we would wear to the wolf den that night.

But really, I should have stopped going. Let me start this next part by saying I went through a weird time freshman year where I exclusively kissed red heads over 6 feet tall. Why? WHY? I don’t know. I’m not proud, but this one particular redhead was introduced to me in the wolf den so I should have ran for the hills. But seriously, the air in that house was thin and I can’t confirm that there wasn’t something extra in the kegs.

The following texts are the basic jist of what I remember one Saturday morning after the wolf den:

Me: hey…can you come let me back into the dorm?
Fellow Wolfette: wait, what?
FW: I literally tucked you into your bed last night wtf?
FW: where are you?
Me: Come outside I’m with a large redhead you literally can’t miss us.

I’m not proud of any of this and to make it even worse, I showed back up into our dorm with my shorts on backwards, which looked bad, but when I got dressed for bed the night before, I was really, really, drunk. No one believes me to this day, but it wasn’t how it looked, I swear.

Eventually, we really did stop hanging out at the wolf den and my fellow Wolfette and I had a falling out that lasted until Junior year (where we discovered we were neighbors once again, and we picked up where we left off). But our falling out didn’t occur until after we had had many, many more weird experiences worth writing about, like the time she put on a full tuxedo to perform a duet with a girl in our dorm who was really passionate about Victor Hugo.

But a good blog post always leaves you wanting more, so that’s a story for another day.

My second time in the back of a cop car

I hope everyone woke up with a hangover today. The vomiting and headaches are almost worth it when you know it’s for your country.
July fourth is a great holiday because you can guilt your friends into drinking by telling them their sobriety is proof they hate America. My night started (as most of my nights do) with cheap wine and it ended in the back of a cop car.

When we got to the bar we met a gaggle of men who I estimated to be in their late twenties but turned out to be aged 30-40 with actual careers. One of them gave me a business card. These were not my type of people but also simultaneously my favorite type of people because they can buy me drinks. Lauren kissed one while I mentioned my boyfriend every 45 seconds and tried to appear interested in some guy’s alleged restaurant chain. I would have walked away but lauren was busy and I had lost Molly for the third time that evening. Also, I was getting free drinks.

Around 12:30 we decided to leave because even though it was still early we were already 2am drunk. At some point we ended up at a bar in which we were the only ones not in leather. I made a mental note that this was the weirdest part of the night. Little did I know 25 minutes later, I would be fake crying and getting a ride home from a cop.

The way we told the story this morning was that our cab driver “kept making stops” to pick up other people. In actuality he made one stop and didn’t even pick the guy up. We all got very annoyed and told the driver to please not stop for other people. we may have raised our voices. This morning, lauren admitted that “maybe” she was too hard on him. Whatever. The point is that he pulled over, told us to get out, and left us on the side of the road. Drunk Me decided our only option was to contact the police. I faked cried and maybe exaggerated what had happened but next thing you know a nice police officer was picking us up and happily driving us back to our house. I was pretty insistent that legal action be taken against the cab driver while the officer was equally insistent that no crime had been committed. but what about the mental anguish??