this heart

So, just to give you an idea of what my life is like at this exact moment, I am sitting in front of my computer in my boxers and t-shirt. My hair is loose; if I don't wash it, I'll smell like barbecue and, uh, failure, kind of. I am listening to Carrie Underwood. You guys. What happened.

No, seriously, besides being a little hung over (which was totally my fault--four drinks would probably not have close-to-floored me if I had drunk even one glass of water in yesterday's ninety-degree heat), my life is really, really good. Weird, right? I spent four years pretty much hating life, and now...everything just kind of fell into place. I'm not, like, blissfully happy, but I swear to you, I was walking down Ballard Ave in my cute new dress (orange! Even orange looks good on me lately!) and my feet hurt and it was so hot that I was getting that nasty underboob sweat--ladies, you know what I'm talking about--and I had a lot on my mind, but I just felt good, and not in that I AM FEELING VERY GOOD EVERYBODY way, where you smile all the time and, I don't know, sing with joy or whatever. I just feel...good.

And then I remember what today is.

Today is the memorial for a childhood friend who recently killed himself. I've talked about him a lot with friends and family, and I don't really want to talk about it anymore; stories like this are always much too long, and much too personal. It's not my place to talk about it, either, because we sort of lost touch as the years passed, and hey, you know what people say about regrets? That's mine.

shut up: tampon wrappers

I bought a box of Tampax Sport tampons, not because I actually play sports, but mostly because I hoped that wearing sports-labeled tampons would be an extra incentive to work out: "You bought the sport tampons, honey, now start playing volleyball or doing wind sprints or whatever it is girls with small boobs do." Like they would imbue me with fitness or something.

Not so much. Mostly they just imbue me with low-level rage that prompts me to begin the first entry in what will doubtlessly be a massive series of blog entries discussing things that vaguely annoy me. Because, okay: My Tampax Jock Girl Plugs feature sort-of-but-not-really inspirational blurbs on the wrapper, and I HATE THEM. Two recent gems, both from the same wrapper: "You'll always have halftime," and "Win or lose, play fair." Let's address the former: What does that even mean? "You'll always have halftime"? To do what? To say "Fuck this workout, I'mma go watch L&O reruns and eat some pasta"? I don't get it.

And then there's "Win or lose, play fair." Uh, the last thing I want to do, whether I'm on my period or off it, is be nice. It's just....it's just the sissiest, most second-grade gym-class thing to say. And it really kinds of adds insult to axe wound, because the reason I need a tampon is that I AM BLEEDING OUT OF MY VAGINA. I already know I'm a girl, Tampax, so don't bother reminding me with your sissy little slogans.

In a larger sense, I'm annoyed by inspirational sayings emblazoned on things marketed towards women. Menstrual products are some of the worst offenders, but I think that's because the only time we ever think about them is when we're on our period and therefore kind of generally unhappy. Those goddamn chocolate Promises things, too: I like chocolate a lot (not like the women in chocolate commercials, who look like they're having the world's most proper orgasm as they bite down on what is almost always touted as a "low-calorie indulgence," that heinous plague of women-oriented marketing), and I'd rather not have my chocolate-eating experience marred by someone's idea of an uplifting saying.

the mature thing to do

So for those readers who don't live within a ten-mile radius of wherever I am when I'm having a conversation about How My Life Is Going, here it is: I went and got a job. Yeah. I got two, actually, both of which are restaurant gigs, and both of which are so dazzlingly entry-level that you'd think I'd never even seen food before. One job is at a Greek restaurant in Fremont, and the other's at a bar in Ballard. (Sidebar: I have wanted to work in a bar since I knew what alcohol was. I have never, ever wanted to work in a club, because I like the idea of regulars at a bar but I am deeply mistrustful of anyone who patronizes a club so frequently that people greet him or her by name. Also, clubs tend to smell like Axe body spray, sweaty testicle and self-satisfaction, and I hate that.)

But my hostessing job at the Greek restaurant...I don't know if I can stay there. I've been there for, like, a week, and already I'm pretty sure it's not the gig for me. Because, okay: I am almost twenty-two, which, while not necessarily advanced, means that I'm kind of a grown-up. I cook for myself, I pay rent, I do my own taxes. I also think Invader Zim is hilarious and I still balk at the idea of being drug-tested. So the transition isn't quite complete, but still. Of the four other evening hostesses, I am the only one who can legally drink. One of us can't even buy a lotto ticket. They look at their tips at the end of the night and, I suppose, sigh happily at the thought of buying a round of vanilla shakes at the malt shoppe or whatever it is kids these days are doing with their money. I look at my tips and think "Oh shit." So I've got to find something else.

Man, but I am just so glad I didn't keep looking for an office job. I'll allow as how maybe I'd be in better financial shape, but...frankly, the idea of going to work every day and sitting down and just basically not moving for eight or nine hours was giving me hives.

dry spell

Okay, can you believe that dating consulting is actually a career path? Seriously, these people get, like, 2 grand a pop to teach guys how to pick up chicks. Here's a hint, guys: BUY US DRINKS. Don't be a skeezeball about it, and definitely don't assume that every girl who accepts a drink from you is obligated to fellate you in the back of your Rav-4. Buy enough drinks for enough girls, and one of them will probably be charmed enough to want to talk to you. Some more hints, while we're at it:
- Don't go on and on about your job like it's interesting. If you sit in an office all day long, think long and hard about whether your career is something we'd want to listen to an in-depth description of.
- Don't fucking talk about any of your exes, ever. It's not like we assume you've never had any, but it's just annoying and it breaks the mood. And especially don't talk about them while we're making out.
- Got kids? Chances are, we'll be cool with it, but you should at least mention it at some point soon after we meet. And don't talk about them ceaselessly. That gets old real fast.
- And, oh my god, don't check out other girls while we're talking. It's disrespectful, and if you want to go talk to other girls worse than you want to talk to us, we might be a little pissed, but we'll get over it.
- Do get creative. Once, I met this guy at the Sunset and he asked to put his number in my phone (that sounds sexual, but it really wasn't), but instead, he changed my startup message so that it said "Hi Jewpacabra, call P-----." It might've been creepy, but at the time I thought it was cute. Do something like that.

click click click

This is what my life has become: Sitting in a darkened room in front of the computer at 10:30 in the morning, listening to the Fastbacks and waiting for this incredible hangover to pass. If you asked me why I'm wearing aviator sunglasses, I couldn't tell you.

I swear I only meant to have a beer. I had a few beers with my family, plus my signature sickly-sweet Triple G Battleship Sinker (gin, ginger ale and a splash of grenadine--tell your friends), and then I went to College's pub, where, if memory serves, I had a Pabst and a gin and tonic AND THEN Jack, who had gotten pretty much twelve-drinks legendary before I even arrived at the pub...well, he kind of disappeared. I found him going punch-for-punch with a much smaller dude about an hour later. Anyway, in the meantime I started talking to this football player sitting at the bar (this story is not going in the usual direction, by the way. Keep your shirt on.) Apparently we knew each other from an earlier incident involving Pop Tart theft, and we talked about how much he loves his girlfriend and how much I despise football players.He apologized for the excreble manners of his teammates and then he bought me the first of, oh, four drinks. I got another Triple G, then he ordered a round of tequila shots, then I got a vodka tonic, then he ordered round of Jager shots, and that's where things get hazy.

I am really, really looking forward to drinking four or five drinks and being blind drunk. I have a pretty burly tolerance for a girl, and it's bankrupting me.

on legal majority

There are few things more irritating than being 21 and not having your ID on you when you want a beer. When you're underage, the simple act of ordering a pint of whatever domestic swill they have on tap without getting carded fills you with the kind of thrill that I'm told forty-year-old women get when they do get carded. You're annoyed when they ask for ID and you can't produce it (and let's admit it, fake IDs are cheating), but the whole thing seems like high adventure.

When you're 21, though: Not so much. Producing ID becomes an enormous hassle. Like, a hassle on the same level as, I don't know, trying to find a parking space in the grocery store parking lot right before Thanksgiving. Just this moment of total, irrational annoyance. Listen, assholes, I know I'm 21. I could give a shit if you know. Just let me into your stupid bar so that I can have the privilege of paying you six bucks for a criminally weak gin and tonic in a plastic cup, okay? Please?

I say this because, at the moment, many of my classmates at Generic Upper-Crust Private College are out drinking in the bars in town, which have wisely agreed to turn away any and all townies, because townies by definition just hate the fuck out of us because we're arrogant little bastards or whatever. I, on the other hand, left my ID at a restaurant 25 minutes away. I'm not all that fussed about missing the opportunity to hang out and get drunk with people I've spent four years ignoring--I like bars, and God knows I like to drink, but I just like to pick and choose my company--but I swear to God, every time I walk into a place and realize that I don't have my ID on me, I am filled with almost completely unjustifiable indignance.

suspicious minds

All signs point to me spending the next three days listening to Elvis Costello and staying just drunk enough to thoroughly appall all my lightweight friends. Senior week! Woo!

Ugh. This morning I woke up, finished that paper (my last ever, thanks be to God), and headed down to one of Off-Brand Uptight New England Liberal Arts College's many artificially verdant swaths of lawn for mimosas and donuts. After enduring two unimpressive glasses full of mostly orange juice, I had to explain to the bartenders--at 10:15 in the morning, mind--exactly how I wanted my mimosa: "Okay. Can you make me one with thiiiiiiiiis much champagne? And, like, thismuch orange juice?" The bartender on the right giggled (and let me just state, for the record, that I do not think that grown men should giggle, ever) and handed me the mimosa. "You're our best customer," he said. "You should come back for the barbecue by the pond. We'll be serving beer. For free!" Seriously, dude, do I know you? We have not established the kind of rapport where you can tease me about the fact that I am kind of a lush, okay? I hate it when total strangers assume that I'll find their judgement endearing.

awesome like a hot dog

At 21, I am either too old or too young to be blogging. That's all I know.

Well, okay: I confess to having maintained a Livejournal in my girlish days, but that was mostly just a cry for help, so I abandoned it when it came time to find a more appropriate outlet for my shameless attention-whoring. Now that alcohol has lost its mystique, though, here I am again. This time around, I promise to capitalize appropriately, refrain from copy-pasting memes, and stop talking about my boy problems as if anybody cares. Everything else is fair game.

It is the eve of my graduation from a vastly overhyped private New England college. My roommates, who are rising seniors and therefore not allowed to stay on campus during Senior Week (more on that later), just left for their respective hometowns. I have a 10-page paper due at midnight, so naturally I'm watching Law and Order and freaking out about the rest of my life. After four years of college, these are the thoughts running through my head:
"Man, I wish my name was S. Epatha Merkerson."
"Most things that are labeled peach-colored are usually more salmon-colored."
"Oh my god, what am I going to do without basic cable?"
"Someone should invent a remote-control spider-eliminating robot. Like the Roomba, except for spiders."
"I should get a boyfriend. Qualifications: Must be able and willing to kill spiders. Totally hetero love of Jerry Orbach a plus."
"I wish there were a computer program that could analyze whether or not I look good in aviator sunglasses, because I really can't tell."

That bachelor's degree: Money well spent.