Boo PoPo

Few weekends have a theme as pronounced as this one. And this one screamed…

“Fuck the Police”

It started Friday when Nickname and a few of my peers decided that it was time they started learning the art of selling booze out of backpacks. Yup, the youngest upper classmen have stepped up to the log bench and started their own bonfire.

Or, maybe I should say that they attempted to step up. But a little scheduling snafu and a stupid freshman rained on it. And then PSafe came. So despite it being barely past 11 the fire was extinguished, though hopefully not along with our not-terribly-shitty reputations.

From there we all piled into cars and headed over to the scheduling snafu—a house party.

We got there right as things were at their peak. The music was good. The pong table was hot. And all my favorite people (including a recent alum that I’ve always had a strange, inexplicable liking towards) were there. I hit my party-groove and was sipping and mingling immediately.

Everything was smooth talking guys and wonderfully biting drinks when all of a sudden I heard the word that every underage kid dreads—COPS!

Normally the cops come, the homeowner goes outside to talk, the cops tell everyone to shut up, and we all disperse calmly. But this was in no way a normal situation.

The homeowner went outside, the cops talked, the homeowner came inside and told us to shut up, and the cops continued sitting outside.

Eventually all the youngins’ were advised to leave or risk a popo encounter, so I filled my car with Westchester and Mr. Jackson and tried to leave. But the cops had most of the roads out blocked. So a few crazy turns later we managed to make it back to campus. I promptly dropped them at the curb and made my way to the Minimalist’s where I learned the reason behind all the hooplah.

Apparently, a couple of girls who had been walking to the party got hit by a drunk driver. The names or condition of any of the girls is unknown.

And despite the fact that cops never showed up to Saturday’s shindig their presence was still felt in the form of a creepy old man.

DeVirgin, who was throwing the party, apparently has some more than slightly odd neighbors living behind him. And from what I can gather the middle-aged father heard to festive noise and decided that him, his Great Dane, and 16-year old son needed to join in. So they hopped the fence—with the dog—and told DeVirgin that if they weren’t allowed to get their party on then the cops would make sure no one could.

Because that’s the mature thing to do, right middle-aged man?

So they stayed. And the dog pooed in the house. And the son was nowhere to be found. And the father got far drunker than me and hit on everything that may have had a vagina between its legs.

The cops never showed, but needless to say, the presence of a man old enough to be my father and creepy enough to be on To Catch a Predator was in no way appreciated.

But I hate to end things on a sour note, so I’ll tell you something I did appreciate about this weekend:

I appreciate that Westchester and I have the same taste in so much and that she decided to go to my favorite veg-head restaurant for her birthday dinner.

And I appreciate all those lovely ladies.

Crash Course: Grass is Green

Ladies,

I’m going to give you some advice I suggest you heed.

Don’t rock the boat!

If you have yourself a man/boy-friend and it’s good -- not just good to the point where you haven’t found anything better, but good to the point where you’re not even looking -- then don’t think for whatever reason that the grass will be greener on any other side that you might come across.

Take if from a girl who has fallen for fake grass more than a time too many, it is never greener.

And now, just as I had to last year with Connecticut and Arch Enemy, I have to remind myself of just that.

Don’t get your panties in a bunch, though, because the Minimalist and I are still sailing smoothly. We’re peachy keen, over the moon, and disgustingly happy. But there’s also Misfit*.

I met Misfit when he wrote for my section in the newspaper. He asked for my number under the guise of needing my help, and then invited me to his place under the guise of wanting me to go over his draft with him. Things evolved from there, thanks in part to GoodMan telling him that the Minimalist and I were a thing of the past.

While Misfit is undeniably wonderful and attractive and intelligent and a whole host of other favorable adjectives, I’m not convinced that his lawn is any better than the Minimalist’s. Ginger suggested a pro/con list and while normally I’m a not-so-closested list-lover, I can’t begin to compare them because they’re so completely different.

Misfit and I shop at a natural foods co-op. The Minimalist and I screw with freshman boys.

Misfit meditates. The Minimalist drinks.

Both make me laugh.

Once again, don’t take this as any kind of confession of feelings or intentions. Take this as what it is—advice on how to handle a situation that will undoubtedly spring up at some point, and one that I will never know how to handle.

If only Twin was here to tell me what to do this time…

*Misfit-GoodMan’s former roommate.

Heads Up

In college don’t be surprised if…

…You find yourself turning into the kind of person you HATE by writing complicated, confusing academic papers with big words and sentences like…

“’Six Characters in Search of an Author’ is an Italian modern play that attempts to define reality by blurring the lines of reality under the pretense of the theater and the battle between actors that play characters and characters that really are characters, all of which, I believe, is an allegory for the refraction that occurs when reading a text designated as world literature.”

Yes, that is what a 64-word thesis sentence looks like.

…Your roommate walks into the room and says she wants a piercing. And half an hour later goes from this,

to this.

With a little of this

in between.

…You find a penis drawn in the dirt on your car. Because penises are funny at any age.

… People (mos’def not me, mind you) go on dates to the dining hall. Or even more gag-tastic, double dates.

…You watch at least 2 of your ‘mates eat Chef Boyardee in a day.

It’s the new Ramen, haven’t you heard?

…Especially when you go to Crunchy College, you debate between getting to class on time and pressing your tofu.

Or maybe that last one is just me.

Manly Man-Boys

Due to a little drunken research with Twin one night, I was able to find out the date of that fateful night when the Minimalist and I first shared spit and a bed. That date (which I am choosing to keep quiet, though you don’t have to try too terribly hard to figure it out) has recently passed.

Yes, kids, that mean our pseudo anniversary just came and went.

And how does that make me feel?

Fan-freaking-tastic!

A day or so before the big day 2 things happened. First, I got far too drunk and, after instructing the Minimalist to finish his drink so I could tell him something creepy (and then having to reassure him that I was not carrying his spawn), told him.

He reacted far better than I expected—he quickly chugged another beer and kissed me on the forehead.

And people wonder why I like this man-boy.

But the next day another, far less blush-inducing thing happened—I found an old note from my ex. Him and I are no longer speaking for several reasons, to say the least, but before he showed his true colors we dated for a year and a half. He is the reason I avoid FaceSpace relationships, or any actual relationship, like the plague.

The note I found was from the very beginning, when things were still good and we were still leaving each other bags of gummy bears.

And it made me sad.

Sad because things had been so good and cute and fun and then quickly changed.

Sad because to this day I’m still sporting those scars.

Sad because there is always the chance that the Minimalist and I could end up that way.

But then sadness changed to nausea.

And I spent the rest of the weekend drinking too much (yeah, again) and being probably disgustingly cute with the Minimalist. Because, oh yeah, we have apparently gotten more disgusting.

We text now. He’s spent a handful of nights in my dorm. He kisses me in public a lot and jokes about doing so whenever he sees guys hitting on me just to see the reaction. His parents like me.

I’m surprised we aren’t constantly serenaded by the sounds of people retching around us. So who gives a fuck about the world’s douche-y-est ex. I’m not going to let him turn my life into a fuck shit stack anymore.

And I’m going to continue to enjoy my minimal time with my man-boy friend. I just won’t let him borrow anything.

Score So Many

Sorry for leaving you hanging there for a while, kiddos. But this little co-ed had some business to attend to.

And what do I mean by business?

Setting up (what is in the process of becoming) my awesome swinging bachelorette pad. And I call it that for many reasons: we have a giant beanbag chair, there is literally a Carmen Electra “exercise” pole in the center, we will soon be getting a purple shag rug, and the obvious, all 8 of us are unmarried ladies.

Which brings me to business number 2—bonding with my ‘mates. There are some of the old cast of characters—Westchester, Ginger, Hookar, and Nickname (formally Roomie-Dearest)—but there are also some new faces—Spacey*, Homegirl**, and CC***.

After spending a very long day moving in Saturday we needed to kick up our heels. What better way to do that, and bond in the process, than by popping some champagne, inviting over a few friends and playing a rousing game of Never Have I Ever.

But this wasn’t your grandmother’s NHIE. In this instance you drank if you hadn’t done it (because we hate to exclude people). Needless to say, everyone enjoyed themselves.

And we enjoyed ourselves at the bonfire, all the while drinking, finding friends, and checking out this year’s crop of first-years freshmen. There were 2 that stuck out to me: a boy that “made moves” and a girl with little more than marriage on the brain.

Should make for an interesting class.

Sunday dawned bright and early, with my usual inability to sleep past 9. It was a day full of little consequence (unless you count figuring out that I could never support myself as a stripper) until I started getting ready for bed.

Let me preface this recount by saying that I had known all day that the Minimalist would be coming back Sunday. I had known for a week. But not wanting to be That Girl, I didn’t contact him, nor did I have any intention to until Monday.

But there came a point, as I was “exercising”, that my phone buzzed. Much to my surprise, it was the Minimalist wanting to see me. I’ll skip the details, but when I finally laid myself down to sleep he was right next to me in my bed.

This is the first time in far too long that I’ve had a man-boy in my bed. And it is the straight up first time there has been one in my college bed. Needless to say, I was mildly freaking out (and not just because my comforter was askew in the duvet cover and my baby blanket was floating around somewhere).

The man-boy that I liked was in my bed! In my room! This was uncharted territory. But I certainly didn’t mind. I slept like a baby…until my 7:45 alarm.

Yup, 8:30 class twice a week. M’favorite.

The Minimalist left on his walk of shame back to his new house and I rushed out to a full day of classes and meetings and whatnot.

And now I’m dead tired, but beyond happy. With everything.

And I just heard this weekend is a rugby weekend.

Score so many for sophomore year.

*Spacey-a girl with a love of drunk dancing and a slight inability to follow most trains of thought.

**Homegirl-she can only be described as nice, because she is (though I sense a bit of a wild streak waiting to come out).

***CC-short for Community College, where she went last year. And while she is wonderfully chill, she also appears to be testing her new, out of state waters.

Boro Briefings

Here I am, once again in the Boro that I love so much.

As I write this I am on the verge of taking my first sophomore nap, so I’ll be brief in anticipation of a much longer, more detailed account to come.

I left the Dirty Dirty yesterday. And while I was thrilled to death to be returning to the very green campus and all the less than crunchy hippie friends I have there, I still found myself a bit sad to be going.

What was the root of this sadness, you ask?

Leaving Rocky. Yes, I nearly cried over leaving my dog. But after all the doggy hooplah that this summer entailed I’m sure you can understand.

And there was also a good bit of sadness over leaving ChiChi and Twin. Despite the fact that this year showed me just how close we can remain when rarely seeing each other, I am still saddened by our new separation. Especially since I royally fucked up saying g’bye to each of them.

(Yes, ChiChi and Twin, I take full responsibility for our lack of proper g’byes. I suck. I apologize.)

But yet here I am, in my room in my suite in my dorm which more than slightly resembles a jail. But more on that at another time.

So for now, as I lay my head down to nap, I leave you with this:

While I was for a bit, as I always am, uncertain of where and how I fit in College, returning today to a suite full of lovely ladies, I know exactly where I fit. And now it’s just a matter of making myself feel comfortable.

G’night for now, lovers.

A Wee Bit of Reflection

It’s been a year since I started this little labor of love, my real-time coming of age tale. And oh boy, what a year it has been.

If you had told me last year that this is how I would end up, that this would have been my life, I would have laughed.

Going into my freshman year I was going to be the life of every party. I was going to be single. I was going to be an honor student, a super achiever. I was going to be neat.

Well, one of those things held true—I made dean’s list both semesters and landed the most rossome editor position ever (and I’ve already got my eyes and heart set on my next position). But neat? Single? Life of the party?

Not even.

I’m just as disorganized. I still fall asleep the moment I open a textbook. And while I’m fun to be around I’m never going to be the girl to get the party started. Instead, there have been plenty of times that I opted to stay in with a glass bottle of wine and some Hulu. And I’m okay with that. I’ve accepted that I’m a messy, semi-wallflower with narcoleptic tendencies.

And I’ve finally accepted my less-than-single status, too, which may have been harder than accepting that this co-ed isn’t the hardest of partiers.

Because while it seems almost nothing has turned out the way that I anticipated, I wouldn’t change a thing. And it took a night in Milly to make me realize that.

Saturday night ChiChi invited her nearest and dearest friends (and some randoms) to her new, gorgeous, big, old house (which is decorated exactly like her parents’ house) to properly warm it. Of course, Twin and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Twin brought Chihuahua. Green Bean and the Fertilizer were there with three of his friends from Boston.

We all went out to dinner at a place called the Pickle Barrel.

Then the ladies returned to ChiChi’s to pretty ourselves over a bottle of organic champagne I brought back from Paris.

The boys returned shortly after, along with ChiChi’s 2 roommates, so we mixed a tub of hunch punch and got the party started.

More people showed up later. We danced. We mingled. We drank.

I started my evening talking to an ex-Marine. We talked about men missing chunks of skull and the dangers of life after deployment (at which point I mentioned something Papa, always the insurance man, told me about military motorcycle deaths). Then I spent the rest of the evening talking to one of the Boston boys about their upcoming trip to Disney world, road tripping, cooking and being a crazy vegan. The more I talked with him the more pronounced my Yankee accent became. And when it came time to go to bed I threw myself on the most uncomfortable Ikea pull-out couch. The Boston boy happened to fall there, too.

Now before you begin chanting adulterer and demanding crimson “A”s, let me make fully clear that we did nothing, all of our clothes stayed on, and that I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

The next morning I woke feeling better than anticipated, downed my trademark hangover cure (warm lemon water and oatmeal), helped ChiChi clean a bit while listening to her gripe about her first 8am class the next day, then returned to the homestead.

So what did I learn from my 24 hours in Milly?

That my family and my roots are important to me. That I don’t dislike the Dirty Dirty as much as I always thought I used to. That I actually really like the Minimalist. That I really, truly and completely love food and that my current food-related ambitions are not ill-advised. And when I heard ChiChi talk about starting back to school I got a wee bit jealous. Jealous of 8am classes and papers and mounds of reading?

Yes. Because College is where I belong. College is where most of my life is now. Twin and ChiChi, and the rest of the gang, are always going to be massively important parts of my life, but College is now. And, as strange as this sounds, all the work that comes with it is just icing on the cake.

So, cheers, friends. To a good year past, and another good year to come.