Tagged: college

Transition.

Hey internet. It is a beautimous day here in where-I-live and the tourists are flowing regularly through the visitor’s centre. It’s move-in weekend for both of the colleges up here, so we’ve had a regular flow of people moving their kids in and wanting to know how to get to Bed Bath and Beyond and Tarjay and Weggies to buy bed sheets and computer cords and stuff.

If I may wax poetic for a moment (and I may, because it’s my blog and I do what I want) I feel weird about student move-in this year. Not like, I-really-miss-being-in-college-and-wish-I-was-moving-in-myself weird, but more of a I-feel-very-disconnected-from-this-entire-process weird. Which is in itself weird, because last year when the students came back, I was so upset that I moped around for a week and had long conversations with anyone who would listen that I hated everything and wanted to move back to my college town.

Weird.

Weird weird weird.

You know when you write a word too many times and it just starts to look like it’s not a real word anymore?

Yeah.

Yet I digress.

Life is like that. One day you’re pretty sure you are going to be a princess when you grow up, or that you’re meant to be with the person you’re dating for the rest of forever, or that you can’t graduate from college and become a real person being the idea makes you physically ill. In the moment, your emotions are too big and spiky and powerful to disconnect from them.

So you ride it out. And you deal with the fallout, and take the day moment by minute by millisecond.

The next day, or week, or year, miraculously, things change. You’re pretty sure that you actually want to be a doctor, not a princess, and yeah, thinking back on it, your last boyfriend was a total ass, and weirdly enough, you are really glad you don’t go to college anymore.

If you’re going through that right now, it won’t last, I promise.

Ride it out, my friends.

8 Drinking Games- an Infographic.

 

I was recently approached to host this drinking game graphic on my blog in return for some free publicity.

Uh, okay.

Read this and then read this more compelling article about my own drinking game experiences, which are way more fun than any of these.

Bottoms Up: Eight Great Drinking Games
Source: Best College Reviews

Need a drink now?

Try one of these.

One year anniversary.

Well folks, here it is.

The day I never thought would come (well, that’s clearly hyperbole, but you get the point. At any rate I didn’t think it would get here as fast as it did.).

It is the eve of my One Year Out of College Anniversary.

On May 20th, 2012, I graduated as a double major in Art and English with a French minor, with honors. I’m going to go ahead and brush my shoulders off.

Fun fact about me – I didn’t bother going to my graduation ceremony. Mamma Mia and I went to the beach and drank warm Corona instead. It turned out to be an awesome idea, because the day ended up being about 80 some degrees and the ceremony was held outside. No thanks. I gotta work on my tan.

Nevertheless, the graduating thing did happen, and I packed up and left my cozy little apartment and my ex-boyfriend Dali and my lazy life in a college town and moved back home.

Looking back, I’m immediately startled at how far I’ve come since then (as I should be). When I left college, I was a burnt-out emotional wreak. I was in a low point. I left my freedom and my friends and my carefree attitude behind and came home to live with my parents after failing to get into grad school (attempt#1) and trying and failing to justify staying in the city where I lived. I had a job at the yoga studio and with my catering company, but I was intellectually and creatively and emotionally unsatisfied.

I felt, quite honestly, like a useless sack of shit, and I resented the intervention of my family and friends in even the smallest ways, from asking if I was going out that night to asking me to pass the salt. I was deeply, deeply depressed for almost 4 months. I hated or was indifferent to my surroundings. I kept butting heads with my parents about everything.

Things started to look up in October when I went to yoga training. I started getting really involved with my teaching. I generated a bit of a following at my studio. I started writing a whole lot, under the generous tutelage of A, applied for grad school (attempt #2), and started practicing music and playing live shows with Captain Apollo.

In December, I started this blog, and I’ve written about how this blog has changed my life, internet, and I firmly believe that it has. I’ve never felt so organized and productive and worthwhile in my entire life, and I know a big part of that is trying to find time to write everyday. I celebrated Post 100 two months ago and I’m rapidly approaching 150. Whether or not the quality of the content has improved is up for debate, but you can’t say I haven’t been prolific.

I’ve recently started a new job at the local visitor’s center I’ve been loving. I played a successful gig last Sunday and I can now proudly say I can sing live without feeling like I want to vomit. All in all, things are going well.

I guess, to sum, life goes on after college, and in fact, gets much, much better. If I saw myself from a year ago, I don’t think I recognize me. I’m not a wilting flower anymore. I have thoughts and ideas and opinions and I can and will assert myself, even against my parents, which I NEVER did in high school. I’m discovering assets of my personality that I never would have figured out in college.

Leaving college is scary and traumatic and awful. You want to cling to theme parties and having a flexible schedule and some semblance of “freedom”, and looking into the future last year, I didn’t see any of that being possible to keep. However, here’s a sappy takeaway – life makes things out of what you put into it. It’s like a mixer. If you don’t put in the ingredients, you won’t get any cookies, no matter how high the blade setting is.

Or something.

YOLO.

The worst meal I’ve ever had.

Internettt. Maman and I are on the road and I just had lunch from McDs and I’m seriously suffering from McRegret. My McAngus was McAwful.

It did, however, remind me of a true story of a terrible, terrible meal I had once. I’d venture to say it was the worst meal I’ve ever eaten. And if you’re expecting a tale about a bad restaurant with poor service, you’re in for a surprise – because this meal goes above and beyond a mere condemned restaurant story. Nay, internet, pull your pants up and hold on, because this is the tale of the Tour de Terrible.

Our story begins, as most good stories do, with a drink. It was my junior year of college and my neighbours were having a party of epic proportions.

To start, we set up a tub in the kitchen, filled it with a dubious mixture of beverages, got a bunch of turkey basters, and took turns squirting shots of this concoction into each others mouths. Oh college.

Yet it gets better, folks. We played a game called Beyripped, which is essentially a combination of beer pong and flip cup. My roommate and I, it so happens, are really excellent at flip cup and were on opposite teams, so the game went on and on and on until her team won on a technicality. Whatever. Not upset.

I believe the night ended when one of the boys who lived in the apartment grabbed his guitar and we had a singalong. Or we watched a few episodes of Storage Wars until everyone past out. Either.

So anyways, the next morning I had the most hellaciously bad hangover I’ve ever had. It was awful. I wanted to die. I crawled out onto my patio and curled up into a little ball with a mimosa and a bottle of aspirin ready to spend my entire day lying there. My neighbours across the way were in a similar state on their porch.

We had the following conversation:

Me: “Guhhhhhhhh”

Them: “Blarghhhhh”

Us: “Nrghhhhh”

15 minutes later, we were in my car heading for McDonald’s.

I know. Out of all of the amazing places we could go where I went to college, McDonalds? My ex boyfriend (Dali) used to take me to the most amazing breakfast sandwich place I’ve ever been to. Toasted bagels, fresh eggs, hash browns, bacon, the whole deal. I suggested it. But no. McDonkadonk.

We split an order of 50 chicken McNuggets with every type of sauce they had. I thought the insanity would end there (I admit, I have a weakness for chicken McNuggs. I think it’s the same compulsion that drives me to order god-awful Chinese food every time I’m in an airport).

We had a ball mixing all the sauces together and trying out some sincerely disturbing combinations, but after 15-20 of them, I was pretty good to go. Alas, not to be, internet. Because this not the end of the story. Oh no.

The neighbours decided they were not satisfied. So we went across the street to Wendy’s and had burgers. With bacon and cheese and the whole nine yards. I’m pretty sure at this point my stomach just gave up on me.

To cap it all off, we finished the morning at Burger King for another round of burgers, as you do, and I ended up dipping my french fries into pure honey (!??!!?).

And then we went out for ice-cream, because I have no respect for my internal organs.

So, to recap- 15-20 chicken McNuggets, a Wendy’s Baconator (plus fries), a Burger King Whopper (plus fries), and a black raspberry Creamee. Stop. Stop yourself, past me.

My Roommate found me curled on the couch watching Say Yes to the Dress reruns that afternoon and drinking Pepto Bismol straight from the bottle. She gave me the once-over, spun on her heel, and disappeared until the sun had set and I was tucked into bed, moaning and crying and wishing I wasn’t an absolute moron.

This is why I’ve haven’t eaten fast food in about two years, people. Bad things happen. 

The Mental Breakdown- Scarlett O’Hara’s Birthday part 1.

Okay internet. I have no time to write a blog today. So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m giving myself exactly twenty minutes to write, and at the end I’m cutting it off, no matter where I end up. If there’s story left over, I’ll finish it tomorrow. Here goes nothing.

***

So I cater part-time for a really awesome local catering place here, and two weeks ago they sent me to run a reception for the creative writing program up at the swanky university here in town. If you follow my blog you may remember me mentioning this program before- I was recently rejected from it.

Cut to this Thursday.

This is what my schedule looked like – teach a yoga class, run home, shower, run to work, cater another reception for the program I was just denied from, run back to the yoga studio for a 40 days meeting, run back home, change, run downtown, play a music gig, and then go out of my friend Scarlett O’Hara’s birthday. Oh, also write a blog post at some point. Yeesh.

As anticipated, the day went just about as well as expected. First off, I woke up to house construction drilling its way into my skull. Then we were out of non-decaf coffee Keurig cups. Great start. I ended up gerry-rigging a fillable Keurig thingy while the construction guys yelled at each other across my kitchen.

I had a crazy full noon class at the studio (14 people!!!) WHICH I TOTALLY ROCKED. So that made up for the morning.

Fast forward to the event (ten minutes on the clock, I think I can do this post in under twenty). The event coordinator, recognizing me from the previous event when we discussed my application to and excitement about the program, immediately asked if I was accepted, and I had to tell her I was not. Awkward. I set everything up and wait for the students to come in, whereupon three others I’d had the same conversation with prior, asked me the same thing (still rejected, thanks guys).

And then I get to stand there invisibly in the corner listening to people workshop their current projects and talk about literature and eat canapés and occasionally come over to get refills on their flavored seltzer water. Fab.

By the time people are filling out of there, I’m so flustered that the event coordinator mentions something to me about a reception involving the poet Lynn Emanuel and I refer to her as a dude, which probably confirms for her my rejection from Cornell because how dare I not know every poet ever and their respective genders (is what I’m thinking, because that’s how my mind works).

So then I get to packed everything up and push this ridiculously full cart up a hill through the snow to the van, and things are dropping off the stupid thing and I’m huffing and puffing and wearing a freaking skirt and flats and someone asks if I need help and I almost bite their head off because THE SITUATION WAS UNDER CONTROL (not).

And then I pack up the van and cry and have a little hissy fit for about three minutes before heading back to the

The Tale of Taco Tuesday.

Varenka wants me to write about her birthday, which happened on Tuesday. She turned 22.

Huzzah Varenka.

This is not a picture of Varenka. This is a baby goat jumping over a log. Don't worry about it.

This is not a picture of Varenka. This is a baby goat jumping over a log. Deal with it.

On paper, V had the perfect birthday celebration planned out. We were going to go to yoga (as we fitness fanatics do), then to a food place for Taco Tuesday, then to a whiskey tasting night. She was going to provide the friends and the entertainment. I was going to provide the excessive sarcasm and inappropriate that’s what she said jokes.

Yoga was yogic. Nuff said.

Enter Taco Tuesday.

I should note that I’ve been living in this town for upwards of 10 years now and that I consider myself a townie. I could name for you offhand at least 5 local swimming hotspots of questionable legality. I have been on the roof of almost every major building downtown. I could give you a brief but detailed history of the 6 restaurants that have occupied a certain building since I’ve lived here (all of them were various Asian cuisines, oddly enough).

However, there is wide swath of ground here that townies dare not go while school is in session, for perched on the top of the hill like a vulture is a major university that has, like a dying wolf, latched its jaws onto my hometown and refuses to let go. A school that swells our modest population by almost a hundred thousand people and turns our usually deserted streets into cramped traffic jams held up by idiotic freshman running across the road to class, with a thriving Greek community that makes a habit out of knocking our mailbox out of the ground and has a curious fondness for adopting Saint Bernards.

To avoid confusion, let’s just say that I live in Westeros and that this university is the King’s Landing. It’s technically a powerful entity that controls a lot of what goes on here, but it’s a stuck up pain in the ass a lot of the time.

If you don’t watch Game of Thrones, you’re irrelevant and you can make up your own analogies.

Anyways, there’s a bunch of bars near the university I never go to because they’re crowded and annoying and hip and full of people far younger and smarter than I am. So I had a good amount of trouble even finding where we were supposed to be. The joint was a tacky, moody hole-in-the-wall named after a famous dead guy who murdered a bunch of people, because common sense can pipe the fuck down, apparently.

We get there and enquire about the tacos. Apparently they are 75 cents each, but only after  10:30. It’s 7. We’re not going to wait for it. We order off the regular menu. There’s 8 of us, so it takes a while to get our food. Meanwhile, a bunch of random middle-aged people dressed in slacks and button downs are causing a ruckus at the bar… getting shitty… at 7pm… on a Tuesday. This proves to be more sad then entertaining.

The food comes. Varenka ordered a burger with sprouts and guacamole on it. Her boyfriend Rory also got a burger of some sort. I got a depressing looking pulled pork sandwich that was definitely neither fresh nor homemade.

It was bad. Like, really bad. But I choked it down on the promise of drinking to be had. Varenka ate hers and claimed her stomach was upset about twenty minutes later. No one was surprised by this information.

We end up going to get Pepto-Bismol in a sad little Quickstop that absolutely hasn’t been mopped since the start of the semester. Most of our gang takes some. Then it’s off to whiskey night.

None of us had been to this thing before, so we didn’t quite know what to expect beyond, I don’t know, drinking whiskey. We go into this posh like restaurant and are handed a pretentious little menu and are told to wait until 9 to go downstairs, which means we have to wait for half an hour pretending not to watch people out on first dates that are not going well.

Eventually they let us go down into the posh cave that is their basement. It is way too hipster for my liking. There is a man that looks like the guy from Portlandia sitting near me. Someone was wearing a fedora. It was awful.

We are told it’s going to be 16 bucks for the evening and that we were going to be tasting four 1 ounce pours of “infusions”. The first was a jasmine tea gin (hello? whiskey night? no?) that smelled like someone poured nail polish remover on a bed of roses. It tasted about as good.

There’s an hour of this. The pour girl is blathering on about tannins and proportions. At some point Varenka goes and pukes up our rancidly awful dinner. Rory does as well. I drink approximately none of the crap they offer me and note with dismay that I don’t get service down in the hipster dungeon. The bacon infused whiskey in every way resembles bottom shelf booze with lard poured into it. There’s a hops whiskey that is essentially a terrible IPA in a shot of lukewarm Jameo. They close with a cinnamon sherry that is admittedly good BUT IS NOT ACTUALLY WHISKEY. FALSE ADVERTISING.

My soul died.

Never again, internet.

4 drinking games my roommate and I made up in college.

In honor of my birthday and all the socially irresponsible decisions I made at the bar last night, I give you a post about drinking. Mazel tov.

***

I’d like to put it out there that Roommate and I were responsible, socially adjusted people the went to class and studied diligently and wrote theses and supported philanthropic events (well, at least she was). Nevertheless, everyone needs to blow off steam once in a while, and we did that by yelling at each other, painting our fingernails, doing arts and crafts, and getting drunk in creative ways.

We made these once stone cold sober. Craftsss.

We made these once stone cold sober. Craftsss.

1. Let’s get Bourdained – Roommate and I developed a passion for two different T.V. shows in college. The first was Ghost Adventures. The second was No Reservations. We never really drank during Ghost Adventures because we got way too scared anyways, but No Reservations lends itself to a little debauchery.

Rules- Drink every time he drinks. Simple, but effective. You will be tempted to also drink every time he smokes. DO NOT DO THIS. 

2. Robin Hood (a Walt Disdrink Classic) – Fun fact – I’ve watched Robin Hood probably ten times and I have no idea how it ends. I get pretty fuzzy around the jail scene. I think there’s birds involved?

Rules- Drink every time the words, oodalolly, taxes, or Little John are used. Careful, the first seven minutes are a doozy.

3. Trashed and Tidy – Our apartment had a tendency to get a little untidy, especially during finals weeks. Roommate and I figured out a great way to get motivated to clean. It (sorta) worked.

Rules- Clean your apartment from top to bottom. Every time you complete a room, take a shot.

Quote from our refrigerator door. We wrote all the good things down.

Quote from our refrigerator door. This happened a lot.

4. Solidarity – Drinking in solidarity wasn’t really a game, but it’s something that I expect here on out from anyone brave enough to try to live with me. Calling solidarity means that you are having a really bad day and you need Roommate to meet you at the door to your apartment with an open bottle of your favorite brew, no questions asked. Solidarity means that your Roommate has to drink with you for however long you need them to, despite whatever they had planned. It can only be used in extreme need. It’s like the Plan-B of drinking games.

Use these games wisely, internet.