Welcome to Munchkinland

A couple years ago I went to visit one of my college friends. Let’s just say he lived in a place that was warm and sunny, his apartment building had a pool, and I could wear cute dresses every day. The friend in question, Gabe, was a well-known womanizer. I kid you not when I say he had a lost-and-found in his nightstand of jewelry and discarded, multi-colored thongs. Instead of being totally repulsed by his sleazy behavior, however, I exuberantly cheered him on from the sidelines and rejoiced when the undoubtedly moronic maiden du jour fell for his wily ways. I guess I’ve always been like that though: while most girls wrinkle up their faces in absolute horror when dudes talk about their various conquests, I request all the, um, juicy details, and applaud their skills with serious gusto. In college, after winter break, one of my best friends returned and informed us he had finally had a threesome. I rejoiced and saluted him with a High Life--we’d been anticipating this turn of events for months--but was soon after disappointed to be informed the threesome was “not the cool kind.” Celebration finis.

Anyway. The first night of the aforementioned visit, Gabe and I sauntered down to the hookah bar on the first floor of his building. I absolutely loathe hookah (although I think I am on that ship alone), but this place also had complimentary hummus, so who was I to complain? It took Gabe about .03 seconds to zero in on the trashiest girl in the room: she towered in see-through heels, wore some sort of polyester red dress that I was decently positive was actually supposed to be a leotard, had extra-long, extra-fake, zebra print nails, and, of course, had two ginormous melons strapped to her chest. To put it in simpler terms: she was the type of girl whose Twitter feed is filled exclusively with selfies of her driving a car making the Duck Face.

This girl’s name was, I promise you, Candi (with an I!) and she lived on the same floor as Gabe. I have this problem where I accidentally shoot unmistakable looks of extreme loathing towards people whom I disapprove of, but she must’ve missed my initial face of revulsion, because she was far too keen on becoming BFF. I didn’t want to interfere with Gabe’s game though, so I excused myself to order another drink. En route to the bar, a tiny version of Al Pacino walked into the room. He had the voice, the three piece suit, the slicked back hair--everything. Everything except for the fact that he looked more like he belonged in Munchkinland than in Medellín. Gabe launched me in the direction of Tiny Al, who apparently also resided in the building. Gabe made the necessary introductions, and then disappeared into a puff of prune scented hookah smoke, leaving me alone with this very small, very creepy old man. Tiny Al offered to buy me a drink. Free booze? Why, yes!

Somehow, and don’t ask me how, Gabe, Candi, and I ended up in Tiny Al’s apartment. I remember being highly skeptical throughout the ordeal, especially when, during the grand tour, we were shown a bedroom with a circular bed and animal print sheets, and I was suddenly sure Austin Powers was his roommate. A small contingent of other compact, besuited men showed up, and I decided drinking more was the only way to make this weird situation any better. Of course, I also could’ve easily retreated to Gabe’s apartment and snuggled up with his slobbery bulldog, leaving him to fend for himself, but somehow that simple solution never crossed my mind. Gabe and Candi inspected the bar and watched an MMA fight. I, on the other hand, found myself on Tiny Al’s balcony with none other than Tiny Al himself. Now, I am all for playing wing girl, and am really extremely happy to do so, even love doing so, but I was starting to feel as if I had exceeded my obligations and could leave Gabe on his own for this one. Things were getting weird with Tiny Al, and not just because I had to crane my neck downwards to talk to this guy. But then, just as I was starting to inch for the sliding glass door, he did the one thing that is sure to get my attention: he started asking me about my writing. I didn’t even know I had mentioned wanting to be a writer, but let the record show, if you ask me about it, say anything slightly complimentary about my work, or show even a minuscule dollop of belief in me and my abilities, I am absolutely, one hundred percent yours. I hung around for a bit while I listened to Tiny Al talk about how he really thought I was the type of girl who would make it as an author. The last thing I recall is realizing Candi and Gabe were no where to be seen. Oops.

I woke up the next morning face down on Gabe’s white leather couch, the imprint of a leather-covered button smack in the middle of my forehead. As I groaned myself awake, Gabe staggered out of his bedroom, wearing only a very tight pair of undies and a huge hickey next to his left nipple.

Neither Gabe nor I remembered anything after Tiny Al’s apartment. As in: Nothing. We were left with some interesting clues though. Hanging from the sparkly Home Depot chandelier in the kitchen was a very large bra, which, of course, Gabe promptly tried on as earmuffs. Also, over a chair, was a sport coat, sized Boys Large, that had the distinct aroma of Paco Rabanne. There is no way anything besides a friendly pat on the shoulders was exchanged between Tiny Al and myself, but the appearance of his jacket was extremely perplexing. Like the bra, we took turns trying to wriggle into it, to no avail. 

And so we did the only proper thing to do: we filled our arms with as much beer as we could and headed to the pool. There was only one person in the deep end: her hair extensions were mostly undone, and her thick Claire’s makeup was still caked on from the previous night. Before I could even smile hello though, it became obvious that I hadn’t realized the extent to which the previous evening had gotten out of hand: Gabe left me in the kiddie end, swam up to Candi, stretched out his hand and said, as serious as a heart attack, “Hey, I’m Gabe. Do you live here? I’ve never seen you before!”

Apparently this happened:

Island Boyfriends

Although I’m sure you’ll all find this extraordinarily difficult to believe, but what with a manhunt for a terrorist going on in my backyard, actually having homework (yay!) to get done by the weekend, and working (yes, I said working) every day this past week, I was sort of hard up to find enough time for this whole blogging thing. But, fear not, fair readers! Although abbreviated, I’d hate to leave y’all blogless yet again, so here goes:

This past winter I spent three weeks in Turks & Caicos. I know, I know, my life is just so difficult. I landed right after New Year’s, spent the first ten days with my family, and then the remaining eleven gloriously solo, save for a couple days when I had a friend visit (another story entirely). When I arrived, all my island friends who had come back home for the holidays were there, but most left just a few days later. My friend Lilly, who is one of my few female friends on the island, was jaunting back to Europe practically the moment I stepped onto the tarmac, and soon enough left me high and dry with our group of friends, a collection of entirely of male individuals.

Now, as has been previously established, if you’re ever looking for an ego boost, T&C is the place to go. I don’t know if it’s because there is such a small pool of eligible females, or there’s something in the water, or everyone is just consistently a tiny bit tipsy, but the attention I (or any female who is capable of doing so much as breathing, for that matter) receive is just unrealistically excessive. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t absolutely love it.

So I spent the entirety of my three weeks there frolicking around the island in the company of a solid dozen boys at any given time, showered with attention. This is, as I’ve also previously stated, entirely the opposite of real life when my friends, my friend’s boyfriends and girlfriends, my own parents, and especially complete strangers, continually act like I am a non-entity entirely. Oh, sure, why don’t you two make out on my lap! Please, dance on top of the bar with my friend while I hold your shoes! Of course I’d like to be your chaperone on a date with some creep we just met on the side of the road! My life is a joke at every turn. But during that vacation, wherever I went, I was surrounded by the harem of men, which made for some really interesting interactions to say the least, but none quite so strange as a certain refraining question I had never before encountered.

The first night I went out, some dude whom I’d never met asked me, “Do you have an island boyfriend?” Now, I have a lot of questions about this query: Do you not care if I have a “real life” boyfriend? What exactly constitutes an “Island Boyfriend” anyway? Does he have to live there, or does it just mean some random guy I picked up at a bar for the night? And were I to have either of these types of boyfriends, would that deter or attract you? It was wholly inconclusive, but of course I took just a few seconds too long to mull over the answer before saying, “No.” I thought that’d be the end of it, but somehow, throughout my stay, I was continually approached and asked whether or not I had an Island Boyfriend.

Of course I made a big deal out of this bizarre question and spent much of my time making fun of it--how dumb to have an Island Boyfriend, I said over and over. But, nonetheless, I suppose I didn’t help my case when on a Sunday morning, my weekend friend (a boy) left, another male friend arrived with his family to take the original friend’s place on the beach with me, and the following morning, a third male friend came and spent the day lolling next to me in the sun. My revolving door of men was, I assume, mighty curious to any on-looker. Ah, if only it was like that in Real Life (which, I heartily assure you, it is not).

I know this strange event in my life doesn’t have much to do with the “theme” of this blog, but one thing stands true throughout: this whole “Island Boyfriend” idea and continual collection of men surrounding me is something that is not only extremely out of the ordinary for me, it is also something so extraordinarily bizarre-o that it could only ever happen to my Single Self. Even more insane was that although I was basking in the glory of all the attention, it was nothing special, because any girl receives the very same treatment! Although I usually find myself in situations that are mostly highly displeasing, this Island Boyfriend thing, well, if i'm honest, was sort of the opposite.

The funniest thing about it all, after I spent the whole time laughing at myself, and how ridiculous everything had become, were these very serious messages I got on Facebook the morning I left from the guy who had initially posed the Island Boyfriend question. I had settled on the whole thing really just being some big, stupid joke, but then, there was this:

“i never get a chance to seduce u with all the guys u have crowding u at the bar

u had all u could handle i guess

wen u come back i will b waiting i just hope u come to c me and not show up with an entourage”

All I could handle, indeed. Maybe next time! I’ll pencil you in.

Only 1/4 of my contingency.

Bienvenidos a Miami!

Every year the Goldstein family embarks on a pilgrimage to Disney World. Look, I know it’s about the nerdiest thing in the entire, uh, World, but disregarding the plethora of pint-sized humans who seize every possible opportunity to touch my with their sticky fingers, or waddle in front of me causing me to faceplant it in the middle of Tomorrowland (true story), it’s always a lot of fun for me.

The 2012 event happened last summer. Like a tennis court, Disney World is basically one gigantic parking lot and in the Floridian summer it’s a solid ten to fifteen degrees hotter than the normal sweltering temperature. For five days I was perpetualy pooped, stinky, and profusely sweating, which, I suppose, made me very much like all the rugrats I despised and with whom I was forced to share a breathing space. By the end of the trip I was more than ready for some “adult” time and to escape the five days of family and sobriety. Instead of flying home to Boston with the rest of the clan, I flew to Miami to visit friends.

On the flight, as seems to somehow be a pattern, I got seated next to a girl with the largest set of breasts I had ever encountered in real life. She hauled herself into her seat, H-cups spilling over into my personal space. (Side Story: Freshman year of college, my friend Vinny and I were in the same Psychology class. It was held in a gigantic lecture hall with thee hundred seats. Every class we’d sit together, in the same general vicinity, but never, let the record show, in the same place exactly. Somehow, however, a girl I wasn’t friends with and whom we had dubbed “Missiles” [for obvious reasons] always, always, always sat next to me. This would have been fine under normal circumstances, but that lecture hall had those tiny foldout desks, and Missiles’s baggage hung onto my small desk every time. I’m not exaggerating in the least when I say that there is a boob-shaped crescent on every page of my notes from that class: I literally had to write around her.) Avoiding my airline neighbor’s situation, I curled up next to the window in my sweatshirt and slept for the thirty-seven minute flight.

When I landed in Miami, my friend Jill came to pick me up. I had met Jill the year earlier through her brother, one of the boys who appeared in the earlier post where after hopping into a sketchy stranger’s car, we ended up on the side of the road in the middle of no where in Turks & Caicos. Jill can drink literally anyone under the table, which is both absurdly impressive, but also a tad bit frightening: had I not beheld it with my very own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed that any girl--or dude for that matter--could drink 90% of a bottle of grape vodka. Straight. In one evening. And survive. Jill also has a certain savoir faire when it comes to the male gender: as has been previously established, I am usually a wretched wreck when it comes to almost all interactions with the opposite sex, but Jill somehow is always able to snag a guy. She always had some dude texting her, calling her, whatever-ing her, but when she picked me up last year, she had a real, live boyfriend.

Now I had never witnessed Jill with a boyfriend before so I was entirely unprepared for what lay ahead. I couldn’t imagine it would be too horrifying though: like me, she dislikes most other girls, thinks the majority of girly emotions and feelings and having to aways “talk about it” is bogus, and just seems generally tougher over all. Alas, it was too much to hope for, because the moment I hunkered down in her Volkswagon, she was gushing about her new man, Evan. I let her babble on, and when she asked if I wanted to meet him, I obliged. Although unenthused about the prospect of third-wheeling it on my Miami weekend right from the get-go, I’d be lying if I said I wasn't intrigued as to what sort of man she’d settled on.

Evan was working the night shift as a security guard at a fancy apartment building on South Beach. It was beyond quiet, so when we rolled up, he was the only person in sight. Still wearing my sweatshirt, we hopped out of the car and I introduced myself. As I stuck my hand out to say Hey, Jill launched herself at Evan and commenced a make-out session that reminded me only of Brad the Bad Kisser and Charlotte on Sex and the City (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ynsr1bQtYts--you only need to watch the first thirty-two seconds). I suddenly felt as if I were a geeky extra in a porno as these two fondled each other under the fluorescent lights. The slobbering ensued for the next fifteen minutes and I stood there, alone, scuffing my glittery Toms against the floor. A lone golf cart cruised by, slowed to watch the scene, then bounced back down the driveway. 

When they were through, about an eternity later, they clung to one another like spider monkeys while Evan asked me the requisite I-Just-Met-You-But-Should-At-Least-Pretend-To-Be-Mildly-Interested-In-You questions. I thought that despite the grossly excessive PDA, he seemed totally fine, but as they lurched into one another for round two I suddenly felt like I was going to throw up and/or pass out, and not in my usual snarky, figurative sense: for Real. I started to sweat and hyperventilate and suddenly couldn’t feel my fingers or toes. I ripped off my sweatshirt and essentially collapsed on the ground of the parking garage. Evan kindly brought my a Dixie cup of yellowish water and they both leaned over me, peering into my moist face with concern. “I’mOKI’mOK,” I muttered, trying to see straight, and with my assurance, the two lovebirds went right back at it yet again. So there I was, on South beach in Miami, laying on my back, all alone, staring at the cracked ceiling of a parking garage, trying my hardest to not have a second encounter with the Mickey Mouse-shaped ice cream bar I’d devoured earlier, while my friend and her boyfriend salivated all over one another for a solid twenty minutes. When I was finally able to sit up, there was a Sasi-shaped wet spot on the cement floor, like some strange crime scene murder investigation. Thankfully Jill and I departed soon after, but I spent the rest of my visit listening to them baby talk one another over the phone. (If someone ever catches me doing that, stop me. I’d rather be single and alone. Forever.) 

So just when I thought that the loviness of others was something I could potentially tolerate, it turns out I practically passed out when forced to endure a close encounter. Love, it seems, truly does make me physically ill.

Sub-Par Stealth Shot of my airplane neighbor:

Jackpo(u)t!

One of my favorite places in the world is Las Vegas. Cheesy, I know, but it’s always just so, so fun. I’ve been there on four separate occasions, the first three with my friend Jan. The last time I went, however, I went with a girl I was only friendly with and her BFF. But before I go any further, here’s some advice: Vegas can be truly awesome, but only if you go with the right people. If you don’t, you’re pretty much going to wish you were dead.

Before my most recent trip, I had always had a great few days. Jan and I were excellent at making Vegas friends and Vegas boyfriends, and each time returned home with an abundance of new Facebook buddies. One of these newfound pals was a boy named Tom with whom Jan had a twelve hour love affair and who somehow also ended up becoming one of my Real Life good friends. On Tom’s twenty-fourth birthday, I met him at his office in New York City, which I’d visited several times before, and partook in the party his bosses and co-workers were throwing for him. We were sitting in the board room peeling the paper off cupcakes when someone asked how far away Tom and I lived from each other “back home.” We looked at each other confused, and when we asked what they meant, discovered that everyone thought I was a childhood friend of Tom’s. We set the record straight and told them we met one night at three in the morning in Las Vegas. His boss thought that was either the greatest thing he’d ever heard, or the weirdest.

But moving on: two years ago I was desperate to go to Vegas again, and Jan, who had acquired a real, non-Vegas boyfriend was wholly uninterested. But I was determined to go and determined to have a good time, no matter who I had to drag with me. I managed to convince this girl I knew, Jessie, to come along on the adventure. She weighed about, oh, sixty pounds sopping wet and had been super fun the few times we’d hung out. The problem was, I didn’t really know her. At all. But I figured, how bad could it be? Last minute she told me her “best friend in the whole wide world!” was going to come along with us, a girl who, incidentally, also weighed about sixty pound sopping wet. Again I thought, how bad could it be?

The answer? That bad. 

On our first night, it took them literally two hours of hair and makep-up to be ready to roll. We tried a few clubs and bars, but soon ended up right back at the bar at our own hotel. Now, let the record show I am more than aware that I have the uncanny alcohol tolerance of a fraternity boy, but by the time we ended up at our hotel, the other girls had only had maybe two drinks. Maybe. For some reason we took a quick trip up to our room, and they both literally fell down in the elevator, clinging to each other in hysterics, rolling around like alcoholic puppies, drunk as Charlie Sheen on a Wednesday afternoon. I was absolutely mortified. How would they survive a weekend in Vegas if they couldn’t even survive two Cosmopolitans?

Soon we were at the bar, and found ourselves in the midst of a “stag party” of about fifteen British men, all in their early forties, and all totally gross. And that isn’t me just being my usual judgy self: They. Were. Gross. Balding, awful teeth, besweatered in argyle, you get the idea. Jessie and the BFF, however, literally threw themselves at these guys, could not stop giggling, and begged for free drink after free drink, running their hands over lumpy, bald heads. Now, neither of these girls were bad looking, but somehow they thought every guy in the city of Las Vegas wanted to father their children, which, they deduced, must have made them so desirable. Clearly they were unaware that all you have to do is be able to breath if you want to get hit on in Vegas, and even that is sometimes optional. I spent the remainder of the evening sulking at the bar staring into some obscene drink I’d been handed, while my two so-called sidekicks yukked it up with the men. Once in a while the girls would grab me and say, “Ohmygod, Sasi, like, isn’t this, like, so fun! This is, like, the greatest!!” or “Sasi! Come have fun with us! Why aren’t you having fun? You need to have fun!” No thanks, Ladies. Eventually they both disappeared upstairs with two of the guys. I pretended to be asleep when they came roaring into our room several hours later, their shirts on inside out, one complaining her weave was out of whack.

The rest of the weekend continued in the same sort of fashion. The next day it took the girls until four in the afternoon to motivate themselves to get out of bed (this was after literally five plus hours of them checking Facebook on their phones and whining and gossiping about literally every human being on earth they’d ever come in contact with). Once ready, they decided we just had to go to Denny’s. I’m sorry, but there’s no excuse for Denny’s for dinner ever, let alone in Vegas: it reminded me of the time my friend ditched me in NYC because she wanted to go to the Olive Garden. Seriously? The Olive Garden? After Denny’s, we did a little shopping, which involved going into all the cheap-o but admittedly fun stores, like H&M and Forever21, and them taking touristy pictures outside of Balenciaga, Valentino, and Loro Piana, as if I couldn’t be humiliated any further.e I gripped my non-pleather handbag in shame; even my margarita by the yard couldn’t cheer me up.

That night we went to a club where the girls immediately affixed themselves to a group of Jersey Shore-esque bros with too-tight acid washed jeans and greasy everything. I immediately got left by the bar to buy my own fourteen dollar Bud Lights and sit on a speaker while they did their best Pretty Woman impersonations. When Jessie and her buddy finally decided to leave, they demanded they go up to these guys’ alleged “penthouse suite.” Although I wouldn’t have even minded if they got raped and pillaged that night, I figured I should make sure they didn’t die immediately. Ten minutes later, I left them there as they took pictures in the oversized bathtub with empty bottles of Veuve, making that obscene Duck Face for the camera. 

And then, finally, the best part of the trip began: I took a cab back to our hotel all alone, enjoying the absence of someone screeching in my ears about Facebook or how hot they were. I had a lovely chat about country music with my cab driver, and then won a whopping $5.67 on a slot machine. I was happy only until they burst into the room several hours later, each holding their panties, singing Britney Spears, and rapidly Tweeting.

Lesson. Learned.

In the "Penthouse Suite." My face says it all.

Soul Today...None Tomorrow

For a very brief moment during my freshman year of college I was totally into a certain boy. Let’s call him...Emanuel (as always, I’ve changed his name for the sake of anonymity, but don’t think his real name wasn’t just as Old Mannish or just as Jewy as “Emanuel”). For some bizarre-o reason, I though this dude was great. After actually speaking to him for more than five minutes, however, it became painfully clear that he was pretty much the worst person on earth, a fact everyone on campus could agree upon. He was as fake as Nicki Minja’s, well, everything, and approached life as if he were perpetually in the midst of some sort of extraordinarily fierce political campaign: I am quite positive he exited the womb at the end of 1983 with a “Vote Mondale!” pin affixed to a chest slick with amniotic fluid. My friend summed him up perfectly when one day she proclaimed him to be “the type of guy who has a lot of jackets.” 

Thankfully my fling with Emanuel was short-lived, but my excessively deplorable judgment was not something that was easily dismissed: to this day my friends still tirelessly tease me about my shameful past. More hilariously, however, was that although Emanuel had been the one to end things with me despite my being the “type” of girl he was looking for (read: Jewish), the following year, for some odd reason, he decided that he was once again interested. He could never say it to my face, but back in the days of AIM it was pretty easy to try to tempt me back into his evil lair while cowering behind his screen name. For a solid month, he’d IM me every night. Little did Emanuel know that when he did so, I would grab my computer and sprint upstairs to my friends’ suite, and we would all gather round my laptop and mercilessly egg him on. I’d feign interest for hours, before finally denying him, while my friends and I would giggle with glee. Whoever said revenge is for the weak had clearly never tortured Emanuel via AIM. We got him to say ridiculous things, a fan favorite being “Oh, come on, Sasi, just for old time’s sake!” I saved each and every conversation, which, incidentally, I still have readily available on a flash drive. Just in case.

Soon enough, the game with Emanuel got old, and my friends and I all lost interest in his late night harassment. Despite my change in tune and constant “No way”’s, Emanuel persisted. Because I was so bored of having to carry on these conversations night after night, I finally agreed to have a “chat” with him in person. When he showed up, I was wearing the single most unflattering pair of pajamas in the world (supersized flannels emblazoned with multi-colored Trolls) but apparently that did not deter him in the least.  He immediately pounced and made a move that was heartily inappropriate given our history and my adamant refusal to be within ten feet of him. I promptly dismissed him and made sure to tell each and every guy friend I had what he’d done.

Of course Emanuel wasn’t even slightly ashamed of his nasty behavior. He was, however, wholly disheartened that a significant group of male members of our college class now deemed him even scummier than before. Mr. Future President couldn’t bear the idea that note everyone loved him and everything about him! I successfully ignored his existence for the next year and a half, and when I was forced to be in his presence, made sure to shoot him a look of disinterested disgust. 

At the end of Junior year, Emanuel’s fraternity had a one of those invite-only date parties. I was friends with most of the guys in his frat, so, as usual, managed to secure myself an invite. It was a Champagne Only party. God knows why I ever even thought that would be a wise choice, but, of course, I happily partook. I mean, what is more fun than dancing around to Outkast with a bottle of champagne in your hand? Or both hands? Also, even though many of my girl friends were close with boys in this fraternity, only one of them had attended. She’d come on the arm of her newly coronated boyfriend, so as always, it was me and a bunch of dudes and annoying girls I didn’t know. I enjoyed my champagne and made the best of it despite the fact I was ignored early on. My shoes came off and, apparently, stayed off, as the next day I discovered the bottoms of my feet to be black with Baltimore sidewalk tar and who knows what else.

But before I braved the Baltimore night in my bare feet, I took to the dance floor. It seemed fun at first, until I realized all my guys friends had snuck away with their dates, and since my one female friend was now being carried out the front door by her man, that left me there, completely alone on the dance floor. Nothing new. Enter the infamous Emanuel. There was no where to hide, no one left to save me, and with all that champagne fizzing in my stomach, I was unsure I could’ve properly navigated away from the scene anyway. Emanuel cozied up to me, despite the gagging noises of revulsion I made as he did so. He then proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes apologizing, a year and a half too late, for his abominable behavior. Although I was still repulsed by his mere existence, his dirty deeds were long since water under the bridge. I made him suffer though, told him I needed more of an apology than that. Eventually, so desperate for me to discharge him of his wrongdoings, he promised me “Anything you ever need, I promise you I will do it for you. If I can ever, ever help you out in any way, I really, truly will.” 

Now this is where most people would say, “Oh, OK,” and perhaps remember the sweet, apologetic Emanuel years down the road when they need the contact information of one of his colleagues, or perhaps would like their child to get an internship in his office. But I knew exactly what I wanted then and there. I looked Emanuel straight in the eyes and said with total, complete honesty, “Well, you know what I really, really want?” I paused for dramatic effect. “I really want a six-pack of Rolling Rock.” And before I could even realize the enormity of the fact that I had literally just sold my soul for a six pack of beer that smells unmistakably like creamed corn (go ahead, smell it, you’ll see), a pledge had sprinted down the street to the bar to pick me up the desired beverages. And so I spent the rest of the evening dancing around with my six-pack of Rolling Rock, which, let me tell you, is a whole lot more fun than a champagne bottle, even if you don’t have a soul anymore.

Rolling Rock was my go-to beer all throughout my college career, right up until the end. This was taken during Senior Week.

Toe the Line

Here’s something that happened just a couple weeks ago that many of you have probably already heard me whine about. If so, thanks for the hit, and you are now free to go about your daily routine and get on with the rest of your lives.

As most of you are unfortunately aware, my dad plays drums in a band. It’s an Old Man Band that sings covers of songs like American Pie and Mustang Sally. If you ask me, it’s all pretty humiliating, but back in the day, in order to get a good crowd for various “gigs,” my father would promise to pick up the tab for me and any friends I brought along. Luckily for me, by the end of those nights, most all my buddies were too drunk to even remember my father was in a band, so it was unquestionably a Win-Win-Win for everyone. Eventually my dad decided he no longer needed me as a groupie (or rather, got sick of me ordering Patron shots for all), and the open bar offer was rescinded. But then just a couple weeks ago, my dad’s band was playing in Faneuil Hall, and, desperate to have a good showing, the open bar proposition was reinstated. Yay!

Here’s another thing I’ve been moaning about recently: I don’t have very many friends here in the 617, or at least very many friends who aren’t either engaged or married or like to stay out past 8:30 on a Saturday night. The only pal I could muster up to come out for the free drinks was Kiki, and thankfully she was more than pleased to partake. She had tickets to some show earlier in the evening, but promised to meet me the moment it was over. She is the most punctual person on the planet and I am late for about everything in life, so when I showed up with my dad, who promptly forgot I existed as he went into Band Mode, and she wasn’t there, I knew it was a bad sign. I texted and called, but to no avail, so I plunked myself down at the bar and ordered a drink.

An hour later Kiki busted into the bar: the show had been twice as long as she’d expected. I was thrilled she had finally come though because, frankly, I was getting super sick of hearing about the upcoming Social Sports Club tee-ball tournament/joint bachelor-bachelorette parties the two couples next to me were heartily anticipating. Plus, once you’re on drink number three by yourself, things just start to go a little bit beyond pathetic.

Things started out fun as they always do. After another beer though I headed to the bathroom. After sufficiently drying my hands, some woman came up to me and said, “SweetHAAAHT! You look fabulous!” The Boston accent was horrendous, but the compliment made me feel fairly excellent, so as I returned to the bar and to Kiki, chuckling to myself over what she’d said. Apparently I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should have been because as I was approaching my seat, a girl in an repulsive red top and kitten heeled shoes (don’t even get me started) took a solid step back and landed squarely on the middle toe of my right foot.

I like to think I’m not a huge baby when it comes to pain, but as she smashed her heel into my toe I was pretty positive I was going to perish, but only after dramatically passing out in the middle of the dance floor from extreme blood loss. The girl in the red shirt ignored the entire situation as I hobbled back to my bar stool and immediately ripped off my peep-toe heels: I’d rather lose the toe entirely than ruin one of my favorite pairs of shoes. A flap of skin the size of a quarter was hanging off my toe and, as expected, there was a divot in the shape of the aforementioned kitten heel right below my toenail, gushing blood. Kiki hurried off to secure some Band-Aids from the bouncer while I clutched my foot and tried not to bleed all over everyone and everything.

I could barely move my toe, but four Band-Aids later, the bleeding had semi-subsided so I shoved my swollen toes back into my shoes (there is nothing, and I repeat nothing, more unsanitary than going barefoot at any sort of public establishment). I did a bunch of complaining, but eventually just resigned myself to ordering another free beer to numb the pain. As my and Kiki’s drinks arrived so did an order of sweet potato fries for the girl next to me, which Kiki was suddenly absolutely dying to consume. I thought about stealing a few since the girl who had ordered them appeared to be unable to formulate a coherent sentence as she took out single dollar bills from her velcro wallet one at a time, counting them loudly as she did so to pay for her treat. Then, just as I was creeping towards the fries, Sweet Potato Fry Girl started backing up into me. This was a fairly spacious bar which wasn’t overly crowded so there was no reason this girl needed to close in on the space between us. As she made her way towards me, I realized she wasn’t moving in reverse because she had lost control of any and all motor skills and suddenly couldn’t stand up straight: she was instead backing up because a tall boy with bottom braces and a digital watch was moving in on her.

“Um?” I glanced at Kiki who was laughing uncontrollably. Sweet Potato Fry Girl was now sitting on my lap: while I was seated facing the bar, she was facing sideways, and had walked backwards so far that her rear end was literally resting against my thigh. I scooted away loudly with an unfriendly “Excuse me!” but she just backed up farther and resumed her previous position. Now, this would all be fine and dandy, if only slightly irritating, if the next part of the story wasn’t that Braces Boy hadn’t lurched in and inserted his overly moist tongue into her mouth while she was on my lap. They slobbered all over each other all throughout Brown Eyed Girl and Witchy Woman and somewhere during the bridge of Valerie, they finally stopped making out on my lap. Honestly, if I had moved my head four inches forward, I could’ve partaken myself.

And that’s about where my night ended, with a broken, bleeding toe and a drunk couple playing tonsil hockey on my lap, while Kiki doubled over and eventually snorted out an entire IPA through her nose. Oh, and speaking of the male sex ignoring my essential existence? Here’s a good one for you: Throughout this entire ordeal my father, who I’m told contributed fairly significantly to my genetic makeup and who was seated about twelve feet away from me, was utterly and completely oblivious to my plight and when I told him what had happened he said in stone cold seriousness, “Oh, really? I didn’t even see you sitting there.”

(No picture this week, since I'm pretty positive no one is interested in viewing my mangled toe...)

AE...Why?

I’ve been thinking a lot about this whole getting-in-the-middle-of-people’s-relationships thing, and how, inexplicably, I always end up alone while my friend’s sashay off into the sunset holding hands, staring into each other’s twinkling eyes. I don’t know why this continually happens to me, but I’ve realized lately that this isn’t a recent development: it’s been that way since the very beginning. In first grade, I liked a boy. I planned to make my move--whatever sort of move a six year old hopes to make--at the school-wide ice skating party, yet, puzzlingly, I somehow instead ended up being used as a Fruit Roll-Up eating pawn while my supposed best friend skated away with the crush in question, leaving me all alone (in, it should be noted, what was a mighty fetching skating ensemble). At the time I acted like I didn’t care, and as I do on a regular basis nowadays, I went ahead and tolerated being cast off like last year’s Manolos. I’m always mildly optimistic that things and people change, but let’s be honest here: they don’t. I’m pretty much the same kid I was when I was six, and absolutely the same person I was in the glory days of college, which, of course, is why the same sorts of things keep happening over and over, whether or not it’s on a playground or on a coffee break.

The most quintessential example of how things always turn out in exactly the same fashion happened at college fraternity formal. Unsurprisingly, another group of my dude friends comprised our school’s Jewish frat. My friend Jan and I were buddies with all the boys, and although not actively sought after, we both liked to believe we were. I mean, come on, how many cute, normal Jewish girls were there at that school? So when springtime formal season rolled around, we sat back and put our feet up knowing we would soon be inundated with extravagant pleas to play escort to various future Jewish doctors, all of whom our mothers would totally kvell over.

Well, it didn’t really go down in that fashion. In the final hour, Jan resigned herself to going with one of our long-standing friends who possessed an extreme case of halitosis, while I ended up accompanying Brad, a boy who had at one point mercilessly and extremely awkwardly pursued Jan, but had since refocused his efforts on me. Brad was actually really fun, despite the fact he paused in all the wrong parts of his sentences and had a wardrobe that looked as if it had just been hauled out from the mothballed recesses of my ninety year-old great uncle’s California Closet. He was, however, so not my type. I wanted to go to the formal though, and thus, after an excursion to the Towson Mall (who doesn’t miss that place?), I happily complied.

The event was at one of the only fancy places in Baltimore. We arrived promptly on schedule to enjoy the open bar. I’d been to this fraternity’s spring formal the previous year, but that night had ended up with almost every female in attendance hurling into the newly-installed toilets in the shiny, granite bathroom. But, come on, what else is a formal for, anyway? This year was much more tame, despite the fact that one of the freshman cleared the dance floor in order to bend his date over and ride her like John Wayne, like we were part of the weirdest 80’s movie dance circle of all time. At the end of the night Brad and I scooted into a cab with our friends and newly designated couple, Allen and Brooke. (Incidentally, Jan was still back at the bar whooping it up, hoping at least one future Jewish doctor would swoop her up and hand-feed her lox for the rest of her days.)

Somehow, Brad ended up in the front seat of the car, and Brooke, Allen, and I in the back. Of course, I found myself sandwiched between the new lovebirds, but that was fine: we were all friends. What could go wrong? I mean, besides everything?

The ride back to our dorms was less than ten minutes, but in that obscenely small period of time, Brooke and Allen went from being in-love to being, well, in-hate. It wasn’t one of those drunken arguments you know they’ll forget about the next day, either: there were weird accusations that seemed inappropriate after only one month of semi-dating (“Do you even love me?!”) and odd resignations of failure (“I guess we just shouldn’t be doing this anymore since everyone ends up sad and alone in the end”), not to mention a constant spray of spittle that soared from each of their mouths and landed daintily on my lap as they bent forward and hissed at one another. I tried to catch Brad’s attention in the front, but he was fully captivated by a Caribbean sign-a-long with Juan the cab driver. Thanks, dude. 

And all of this would have been semi-bearable if as we pulled up in front of the dorms Allen and Brooke, both my good friends, hadn’t leaned further forward, stared me down like Severus Snape and said, “Sasi, what do you think?” I think I’d rather die than be in this car even a second longer, thanks. That’s what I think.

I stared back at them in silence for a tiny eternity, then somehow scuttled out the door by climbing over Brooke, managing to mumble only some sort of “idon’tknow” response. Brooke and Allen stayed in the car, both gesticulating in agony, and fogging up the windows à la Titanic, but certainly not in the Leo and Kate sort of way. Brad walked me down the street to the front steps of my building, his bow tie loosened and his loafers scuffing agains the cracked Baltimore sidewalk, inching closer and closer to me as we neared my front door. Of course, even in my Tom Collins induced haze I was sure that Brad was going to try to initiate some sort of half hearted tactic to secure my undying love, but when we got to the bottom of my building’s steps I did what I always do when faced with an uncomfortable situation: I pretended I had no idea what was going on. “Thanks!” I said in my chirpiest of voices, as I gave him an overly effusive, yet platonic hug. Before he could even reply with the standard “You’re welcome” I had scampered up the stairs and closed the glass doors behind me. 

So much like blind tolerance, ignorance, dear readers, is far better than bliss: it’s an excuse I’ve been using for years and years and years. Works every time.

Stolen from the fraternity website, circa 2004. My dancing face is awesome.