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.


Do’s and Dont’s of traveling with me (most rules also apply when traveling with small children)

Today, a friend of mine suggested that I write the “do’s and dont’s of traveling with your boyfriend” because I just got back from Maine with my love, earlier this summer I went with him to AC, and I guess I need to write a blog post. But the problem with writing do’s and don’ts of traveling with your significant other is that my boyfriend is exceptionally easy to be around except when I’m hungry or tired, and then he’s impossible. Wait, maybe I’m the impossible to be around? Whatever. The point is, there’s not much I CAN’T do around him because he deals with me very well. I mean, after knowing me for one week he literally CARRIED me home because I was too drunk to walk. And he still continued to date me. So I decided that it would probably be a lot easier to write the Do’s and Dont’s of traveling with me (/being around me in general) because I require a lot more maintenance. So here we go:

1) DO pack a lot of snacks
As has been pointed out to me by at least half the people I know, I am very much like in infant in that I get incredibly cranky when I am hungry or tired. (I’m ALSO like an infant in that I like to have a bottle in my hand at all times and I often have trouble walking. My head is also disproportionate to my body which seems to be an issue a lot of babies have as well.)

2) DON’T double check details.
Triple check. Quadruple check. I like to think that I’m really spontaneous and go with the flow, but I like to have my vacations planned down to the minute. After a dozen breakdowns and 3 calls in 2 days to the Whale Watching company, I finally felt confident that our reservations were made. My boyfriend called me dramatic but I just don’t think anyone understands my love for any animal large enough to kill me by accident.

3) DO schedule time for naps
I don’t care I am meeting Beyonce and choreographing a dance with her, NOTHING is fun for me if I’m tired. NOTHING.

4) DON’T ask me to drive if I haven’t napped.
One time on my way home from the beach I slapped my self repeatedly in the face for the last 35 minutes to make sure I didn’t fall asleep at the wheel.

5) DO bring enough champagne for at least one glass per hour of the trip and 3 glasses for the last hour of the trip to help me cope with leaving.

6) DO bring Benadryl
I’m allergic to everything including grass, pollen, dust, and sometimes shellfish.

7) DON’T try to make me stop eating shellfish
Despite making me violently ill on many occasions, shellfish is my favorite food. I DON’T NEED YOU TO UNDERSTAND ME.

8) DO make sure the trip includes an animal sighting.
The most disappointing part of the trip to Maine was that I didn’t see any Moose. The highlight was seeing whales. As mentioned before, I love any animal that you might not want coming at you at full speed including very large dogs, horses, whales, sharks, elephants, etc.

9) DON’T try to make me go to a club with a dress code.
The only time I should have to dress up to get drunk is at a wedding.

10) DON’T believe that I’m hungover.
Hangover symptoms are basically just withdrawal symptoms. Don’t ever forget that.











**Credit to my boyfriend for helping me with this post even though he had to “reach and exaggerate” because everything I do makes me “sweet, funny, adorable, and amazing.” SEE WHAT I MEAN?!?!?!? He’s just too easy to be with.**

Dads Playing Beer Pong

Yesterday I discovered two pros of being a graduate: 1) there’s a lot more drinking with parents involved which means alcohol is often bought for me and 2) even when me and all my friends wake up and we’re hungover bitches, it’s hard to be annoyed because we are all just happy we’re together.
Yesterday, I was at a graduation party and this morning I woke up from a dream about roast beef sandwiches that felt like it lasted for 12 hours. wtf? I hate roast beef and I usually don’t dream when I’m drunk. Weird all around. After 3 of my friends passed out between the hours of 11 and 1, myself and my one remaining friend were determined to not sleep. My friend group likes to make this pact a lot; it sounds good at the time but the problem is, we think that the more we drink, the more we will want to stay up and party, when in actuality, the more we drink, the more likely it is that we’re asleep in our clothes by midnight (such was the case with one of my friends who woke up in her maxi dress this morning with her sunglasses next to her on her pillow).
But before I get to this morning, I need to mention last night. If I had to assign a theme to the night, that theme would be: Dads Playing Beer Pong. I was on a team with my dad, who claimed he had never before played beer pong in his life. When he told me this, one million thoughts crossed my mind. “When was beer pong invented? How old is my dad? what did they do in college? I guess they played quarters; also…what’s quarters?”

Anyway, it was distressingly apparent that my dad had never played before because he only made two cups in our first game. Even more horrifying, I only made one. My dad’s lack of skill was understandable, but by my estimate I’ve played roughly ten thousand games of beer pong in my life so what was my excuse? As I got drunker, I got better and by the end of the night, our record was about .500 which was respectable but nothing to brag about. I needed to play Flip Cup immediately where I could really shine. When it came time to play the game that I was put on this Earth to excel at (flip cup), I got overly excited and shouted at a fifty year old father that he needed to “TREAT THE CUP LIKE YOU TREAT A LADY!” Whatever, it made him better and we won the next round.
After 12 rounds of flip cup, 20 cups of beer, and being “shushed” around 100 times, I finally called it a night and carefully coaxed my drunk friend to the edge of the bed so I could sleep where I wanted.
When I woke up, my hand was outstretched expecting a blue gatorade to be put in it, and all my friends were still asleep around me. I shuffled around to make enough noise to wake them all up without making it apparent that I was trying to wake them up. My one friend wondered what the fuck she was doing on the couch while another was confused as to why she was still in her maxi dress. I was feeling pretty proud of myself because I had managed to take off my bra, change my shirt, and remove my earrings. My one friend announced that she hadn’t been this hungover “since college” which sounds impressive but she could have just as easily said, “this is the worst hangover I’ve had since last month.” I can always count on my friends to make me feel like I have my shit a little bit together.
You never know which Hungover Me you’re gonna get. I could be a raging bitch or I could be asleep. This morning, though, Hungover Me was intensely curious about things that don’t matter. After eating our pork roll sandwiches telling each other that we hated each other a few dozen times, I started to try to better myself and my friends by asking the really hard questions: “if you cut off your ears, can you still hear? Would you rather have no arms and no legs or be blind, deaf, and mute? Are seahorses fish? What are lederhosen? Where does the saying “dressed to the nines” come from? What is sassafras?”

After learning about the dangers of sassafras, traditional German clothing, and Vincent VanGough, I thought it was the perfect time to make my exit before all my friends remembered how annoying I am when they’re trying to sleep and I’m trying to solve the problems of the world.
I guess post-grad life is only terrible if your friends aren’t perfect and if your parents are sloppy drunks.

What even is the “real world”?

Allegedly now that I’m in the real world, I’m supposed to “have it all together.” And I think that I put on a good charade. But if we’re being honest, I don’t even know what “having it all together” entails, and I’m extremely disappointed that my “real world” includes about 89% less drinking than the MTV show with the same name. Like, where’s the Danny to my Melinda and why can’t I move out of MY house and then make a living completing arbitrary obstacle courses and having girl fights on tv?

The thing is, college prepared me for nothing except how to be a really good counselor. A few days before I graduated, I was having lunch with my favorite professor. Between her telling me what she really thought about some of my classmates and us discussing our future plans, I still found time to sob over our Indian food. “I’m equipped to do nothing” were my exact words.
And I still feel that way. I still don’t know how to balance a checkbook or my diet. I don’t know how much a house should cost per square foot and I can’t talk to the cable company on the phone without cursing/crying (can anyone?)
I don’t wanna make it sound like I learned nothing in college. I learned a lot of really valuable life lessons like wine makes most things better but wine hangovers make everything worse, or that the rule about alcohol freezing only applies to liquor. (I canNOT believe there was a time in my life when I didn’t know this but I found out the hard way that wine definitely freezes after an unfortunate Franzia situation in which the bag froze and it looked exactly like a placenta.)
I’ve also learned some things unrelated to wine, like the perfect lipstick will make weak men fear you but draw strong men to you and that Bronzer in the right places can change your whole life.
Obviously, college gave me a wealth of knowledge but is it practical? In one sense, no, because I still don’t know what a deductible is, but in a much more real sense….yes, because even though I don’t know how to set up a checking account, I do know to never trust a man with two first names. And, really, what’s going to get me further in the long run?

Drinking in Driscoll

Before you enter college, people tell you all sorts of things about what it’s going to be like. I expected my freshman year to include a 15 pound weight gain, a lot of drinking, a lot of boys, and a lot of hard work. I was 100% right, minus the hard work part.
Despite Counseling being a fabulous major choice for someone who eventually wants to go into Social Work, the 100 level courses mainly consist of talking about your feelings and writing “reflections” about how you felt the class went. I once wrote an entire paper on my BlackBerry on the way to New York. I got an A.
Because school work didn’t take up much of my time, I had a lot of free time to nap, drink, and try to avoid eye contact with the boys who lived in my dorm. It was exhausting. I lived in Driscoll Hall, the greatest place I’ve ever threatened to burn to the ground. With 3 floors of boys and 1 of girls, I was surrounded; it was awful. I blame most of the bad things that happened that year on the boys in that dorm. Once, two of them pulled me out of bed wearing footie pajamas (them, not me) and insisted I chug a mixture of vodka and beer. I was drunk by 3pm. Another time, I went downstairs to find one of them crying and spooning with a bottle of Captain Morgan. I was horrified at the scene and even more horrified that I had kissed this boy on more than six occasions (I hated literally everything about him but he lived right downstairs and it was nice to not have to go outside in the cold).
Driscoll Hall (also known at the “Dirty D” for reasons I learned but can’t repeat) was literally built to steal people’s dignity and ruin lives. Naturally, it’s one of my top three favorite places on Earth.
The first time I got cited was really not my fault. The second time wasn’t either. The third time was definitely my fault. The following is a recount only of what’s been told to me, considering I remember none of it.

Having put me to bed an hour earlier, my friends were all shocked to see me upright and trying to figure out why the water fountain wouldn’t flush. When they tried to put me back to bed, I became violent (this is when I decided to break up with vodka for a few months, as I have been known to overreact and sometimes become physical under the influence. Vodka and I have seen gotten back together and things remain cordial). I was screaming and insisting that one of my friends had “called me out.” This was the night that same friend had either eaten a cherry Chapstick/was throwing up blood (debate continues to this day about which it was). Needless to say, she had also been out for the count for quite some time and was in no shape to “call me out” on anything.
I then decided it would be a good idea to go downstairs and INSIST I sleep in one of the boys’ beds (whom I was by no means friends with) who was away for the weekend. His roommate was still there with his girlfriend. Apparently I caused quite a scene.

The next day I went to the caf in the same clothes I had worn and slept in the night before. I literally had no idea any of this happened until everyone filled me in.
When I met with the Area Coordinator to discuss what had happened, she filled out a slip referring me to a Counselor to discuss my “alcohol induced aggression” and not-so-gently suggested that I quit drinking all together and leave the University for the upcoming Parade Day. Sick joke.

How I got accused of Grand Theft Auto & why it was Snooki’s Fault

If there’s a celebrity that tons of people hate and they also are famous because of a reality show, generally I’m a huge fan (this excludes Teresa Guidice for reasons too numerous to list at the present time). So naturally, when Jersey Shore aired, I was ecstatic, partially because I love to watch train wrecks such as myself on TV and partially because I believe the closer in proximity celebrities are to me, the more likely it is that I will become famous (a dream of mine, duh.) OBVIOUSLY, Snooki was my immediate favorite because her tan was bad, her fashion was questionable, and she was a hot drunk mess. ALL of my favorite things in a best friend/reality star I’ve never met.

Seeing as I have a beach house a few miles away from Seaside, I was expecting to brush elbows with them a lot (or, in the case of Snooki, my elbow brushing the top of her head.) Unfortunately, after a few weeks of filming their second season, I had not run into them at all, so I decided to take matters into my own hands and creepily prowl around Seaside in search of them. I was driving around for a few minutes when I saw a huge crown up on the boardwalk. Jackpot. I could see Jenni and I assumed (correctly) that Snooki was with her. The street was also pretty crowded so I was frantically searching for a place to park when I saw an open spot. I was so fucking excited I almost passed out at the wheel. I was sooo excited that my parking job was a little cray and when I backed up to straighten it out….I hit another car. For one half second I thought I would just run and forget about it. Thats a lie. It was more than a half second. In fact, I was completely prepared to leave the scene when a cop on a bicycle (how embarrassing) rode over to me and insisted he take the report down. Literally, just my luck. With tears in my eyes, I looked up to the boardwalk and watched my BFF (Snooki) disappear from my sights. The officer walkie-talkied in my plate numbers while I plotted ways to get into the Jersey Shore house that didn’t involve me catching an STD. I was still plotting in my head when the officer put his hand on my shoulder and said, “miss, are you aware the car you’re driving is stolen?) WTF??! I think I started crying and I’m not proud to admit that I may have thrown my mom under the bus by telling him she bought this car for me and she probably didn’t know it was stolen but she always was fond of a good deal so I couldn’t be sure. He was not deterred by my tears and next thing I know I was handcuffed and THAT was my first time in the back of a cop car.

Just kidding. The cop wasn’t even in a car, remember? He was on a bike. Turns out, he read my plate number wrong and I was free to go. I didn’t even damage the other car so nothing bad even happened (except for my party soul-mate getting away). Now whenever I’m stalking celebs I generally just go on foot (all the better to shout my twitter handle at them anyway).

I kind of feel bad for Barbie

I consider myself something of a feminist, considering I’m a woman and I think I can do everything at least as well as men and most things better than them. But the one thing I will never understand is why people hate on Barbie. Does everyone realize that she had a long time boyfriend whom she never married, a thousand different careers, a well rounded social life, and a little sister that she took care of? I mean, it sounds exhausting and dolls of me would not sell as well because I could never handle all of her responsibilities and Doll Me would only have two accessories: a tiny bottle of vodka, and a set of pajamas.

But I digress.

Barbie does all these really great things and she looks good doing them and all anyone fucking talks about is her body. Isn’t that exactly what we are trying to discourage girls from doing?? What if instead of saying to little girls, “you know Barbie is just a toy and if she were real she’d have to walk on all fours and she’d have to wear infant shoes” (which little girls don’t care about because they have no idea what you’re trying to explain to them) we were like “wow girls, look what a great big sister Barbie is and isn’t it cool how she’s a doctor and an astronaut and she has time to surf on the weekends and she also is a skateboarding ballerina. Doesn’t she make you wanna try new things and be the best you can be?

Barbie is a pretty liberated woman and all anyone talks about is how thin she is….does anyone else see the irony??