Showing posts with label Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stories. Show all posts

Monday, October 31, 2011

8:46 PM

Like a Zombie, I'm Back From the Dead

Holy fuck you guys,

I've been absent in your lives since June. FUCKING JUNE. I considered never coming back, then I considered coming back but kept stopping myself... kind of like when you pick up the phone to text someone you really want to like you and then you pause just before clicking 'send' to throw the phone down in shame/fear/embarrassment/a bundle of indiscernible nerves. Then you do that again. And again. And again. Until, finally, you find yourself staring in the mirror screaming "SEND THE TEXT AND STOP BEING STUPID!"


I mean, I hope I'm not the only one who does that every now and again.

So now I guess you know how I got back to writing. But what about why I left you for so long? Well, I was on my own personal vision/spirit/coming of age quest. Seriously; I'm not being silly. I'm pretty sure I found my spirit vegetable (turnip, if you were wondering) and my spirit song ("Strawberry" by Everclear). Unfortunately, I'm still seeking a spirit animal, a spirit color, and a spirit smell. Suggestions are welcome.

I just re-read that last paragraph and, apparently, in the last five months I've become a hippie. Please forgive me.
letznotandsaywedid.tumblr.com

Okay, so I'm not sure if I'm searching for a point in life anymore, but since the philosophy of everything happens for a reason still seems logical, I'll share a story with you and, together, we can see if there's anything to be gleaned. Kapish?


DREADLOCKS

When I was in high school, I had two best friends: Oriana and Chelsey. By our senior year, they had come down with an affliction that PTA moms affectionately refer to as a case of "the Boy Crazy." It was a little bit gross. "The Boy Crazy" is this terrible disease where girls think about boys all the time--kissing them, touching them, dating them, marrying them, holding them, and so on and so forth. TBC wouldn't be so excruciatingly terrible if it wasn't a permanent state of mind. However, when a girl gets TBC, she loses her ability to live in reality--all she can focus on is the iron cage of longing her heart is stuck fluttering around in.

TOON HERTZ

And, to make matters worse, TBC is 100% contagious.

In my case, I felt left out: my two best friends were going on and on about the last time they saw Michael or Gabriel or Travis or whoever and all I had to talk about was the English teacher who told me that if I wanted to get famous for writing literature, I needed a drug or alcohol problem. We were existing in totally different worlds.

It wasn't that I didn't like boys (I mean, I don't, but I didn't know this back then), it was just I didn't know any boys that induced TBC mentality in me. Then one day, sitting in the parking lot after school,  I saw him. We'll call him... Ebert. He had great arms and cinnamon skin and these beautifully twisted dreadlocks. I was pretty sure those attributes made him attractive and I immediately began referring to him as "that hot boy with the hair".

He was friends with Oriana's biggest crush, so we were able to do a lot of boy watching together (is that enjoyable for anyone? Really... you just stare at boys and what do you think about? Sex? Babies? Your wedding dress? Honestly, I'm curious). In two seconds, I went from outcast to full on part of the conspiracy. Suddenly, I had something to report when lunch time came ("He passed me in the hall after gym!") and something to contribute after school ("God, look at the way his arm muscles move!"). I even had the ability to participate in stalking ("Since he passed me in East Hall after gym, his class must be on the back end of campus... I'm going to try to figure out his schedule!"). It was like TBC wasn't a disease but a competition and I was going to prove to the world that I did it better than anyone else, ever.

OLIVER THOMAS

However, after a few weeks, it became clear that I could never win TBC game. See, while Oriana and Chelsey and all of my other friends were going all Bella Swan on their crushes, they were doing it with the intention of actually snagging the boy for their own. It turns out that I didn't have that intention. In fact, I'd never spoken to Ebert. To this day, I don't know what his voice sounds like. I never had a class with him, attended a party he might be at, ate lunch near his clique on the bleachers, nada. I had picked the least attainable and most easily avoidable boy on campus to be my crush while I grappled with TBC dilemma.

It occurred to me at one point that if I were to somehow convince Ebert to like me back, I don't know what I'd do with him. Date him? How exactly? What do girlfriends and boyfriends do when they aren't making out? I certainly didn't want to make out with him, so then I wondered: what did I want from him?


Once I realized my lack of sexual interest in Ebert, my participation in TBC epidemic was doomed. I had panic attacks any time one of my friends suggested I approach him--why? how? would he talk back? what would I do if he did? would I have to actually show interest? I found a way out of every situation, set up, and 'coincidence' my friends rigged to get me within touching distance of Ebert.

By graduation, it was clear to me and to everyone else that my obsession was Ebert was a facade for social situations, a counterfeit ticket to a show I didn't even want to see.

Fast forward six years.

Living the fabulous life of a debt-riddled young professional in recession-era America, I'm at a party out of town and I meet a girl named Harley. She's covered in tattoos and piercings. Poking out of her hair scarf are a crop of freshly twisted dreadlocks.



Harley is far from my type, but she likes me and the host of the party swears we're totally going to hit it off if I give it a chance. So I agree to suspend my snap judgement and give the girl a chance. In a complete reversal of my experience with Ebert, I spend the whole party talking to Harley. It's fun and easy and strengthened by the liquor spilling down our throats. Thankfully, I no longer have to question what I want--I want the touching and kissing and whatever else follows.


However, two months later--after a awesomely awkward date and a number of flirty exchanges--I find myself fielding text messages about our non-existant relationship. In seconds, I am seventeen again and in that faulty TBC mindset: if I were to date Harley, what would I do with her? What do girls do with their girlfriends when they aren't all over each other? I like making out, but I don't actually want feelings or anything. Do I need to show interest in this conversation?

You guys, this was literally a month ago. Harley and I are no longer talking because, once again, I choose the most easily avoidable person in my social sphere to get involved with. Once again, I can't figure out this relationship thing. Once again, I have no intention of snagging anyone for myself.

When I was writing this story, I thought it was kind of hilarious that both Harley and Ebert had dreadlocks and that our non-relationships had the same ridiculous demise, which is the only reason I linked the two. I was going to tell you all these crazy things about why I have non-relationships with kids who have dreadlocks. However, in writing this, I realized that I have quite a number of non-relationship exes (the majority of whom do not have dreadlocks) and all of their appearances in my life lead me to this point:

I DO NOT UNDERSTAND RELATIONSHIPS, YOU GUYS.

SOBREEUEVOCE

I don't understand them at all. I guess I thought that once I figured out my sexuality and got comfortable there I would have the relationship goal bestowed upon me in a shower of rainbow sparkles by God or whoever, but I'm here and I'm queer and I still really don't get relationships.


I've officially gone Brian Kinney up in this place.. and while that may be fine for now, I'm wondering if this is going to be problematic in a few years when my friends are settled down and scouting out ridiculously expensive and diverse prep schools for the buns in their ovens.

Aye. What's a girl to do?
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Thursday, November 11, 2010

3:23 PM

Oblivious Abroad

Hey,

so I came up with a new plan for the blog. I'm always thinking of new plans for this thing. My new plan is to post my stories on Thursday evenings. And when I post, no points or morals or big picture ideas will be provided. And then you can give me point ideas through the weekend. On Monday, I'll weigh in. You know, this might make this feel a bit like a discussion and that could be totally cool.

What are your thoughts? Will you play along? I know one little lady who will; my friend over at PostCollegiate! She's a sweetie and you should visit her blog to say hi.

Oblivious Abroad

When I got to Denmark, I told myself that I was on a great adventure and the only goal was to "find myself." Five girls from my college went with me to Hamlet's homeland, but I told them after week one that I didn't want to spend much time hanging out with them; if I latched onto people I was comfortable with nothing abroad would be able to force me to grow up.

I look back on this and think about how much of a badass I am. Seriously, there I was in a country where I didn't speak the language, I didn't know my way around, my parents were a nine hour flight and layover in London away, and I was pushing away the only people I knew.  Sometimes, I'm super impressed by my crazy ideas. 

Anyways, in week one, I accompanied some of the Americans in my apartment complex to this wonderful bar in the center of Copenhagen, The Scottish Pub (so creative!). 



Everyone loved this bar because they served this huge tube, which looked like a bong of beer. You paid $20 or 100kr for it and you and your friends would be able to drink for a few hours (if you were American) or 45 minutes (if you were Danish). I wish I could show you this amazing contraption, but it's not even on the pub's website!

So there I am, week one in Copenhagen, surrounded by hoardes of American kids who are just as lost in this city as I am. A boy from my crash course in dansk (Danish), decides to meet a bunch of new kids through our shared alcoholism, and purchases the beer tube, announcing that he'll share it with the first six kids to show up at his table.

Obviously, within two-point-five seconds, I'm sitting at a fully occupied table. Kids start moaning as they realize the table is full, but the six of us with seats happily push them away. We all stare around the table with giant toothy grins; we know we're about to get drunk on someone else's dime and it can't be anything but wonderful. As we start drinking, it becomes apparent that we don't know anything about each other so we begin to chit-chat: this is what program I'm in. Here are my lofty dreams for my European semester. How are all of the people here so beautiful? (And they are beautiful. Fucking gorgeous.)

About halfway through the beer tube, our conversation took a telling turn. Fun fact: at the time we were in Copenhagen, the city boasted a multilevel sex museum, Museum Erotica:

Unfortunately, it closed in summer 2009. Luckily, this story is set in late winter 2008, and for seven American kids from seven small liberal arts colleges, this museum in the middle of the shopping street was so interesting. What was in there? How much would we have to pay to go in? Is it appropriate for teens? Would we see porn if we went in?

We considered walking over to the museum (which is literally five minutes walk from the town center), but decided it wasn't worth the sacrifice of our beer. Instead, we continued to discuss the attitudes towards sex in Europe (crash course: no one cares about what you do, who you do it with, and - as long as your 16 or so - how old you are when you're doing it). One boy was talking about how his host mother told him he was welcome to have his girlfriends or boyfriends over whenever he liked. He responded by saying, "Thanks for the hospitality, but I have a girlfriend in the States...and I'm straight."

His mother just nodded, "I know, you've told me. But when you decide to have others over - girl or boy - it's okay."

I was about to snicker, when a few of the other kids at the table shouted out terms of agreement; they'd gotten the same greeting upon entering their host families' homes. One's host father had even asked him how he planned to stay in Europe for four months without sleeping with anyone if the girlfriend was all the way in America.

The only girl at the table, other than myself, spoke up. She said her host sister had explained that no one would expect any Dane at our age to commit to being with only one person. Also, they thought we were kind of young to decide we'd only ever be with this gender or that gender. In Danish terms: we were sexually oppressing ourselves.

We all took a minute a good dose of beer to think this through. Playing with her long red hair, the girl spoke up again. "I think it's kind of a neat thing, you know?"

"Yeah," this one guy said, pausing. "We should sexually liberate ourselves this semester."

"Here ye, here ye!" The boy from my Danish class shouted. We all toasted each other.

"Alright," someone shouted, "all around the table: what are you going to do to liberate yourself?"

"Visit the sex museum!"

"Cheers!" We shouted and drank.

"Go to the naked party in my kollegium (Danish dorm): no clothes, no drink!"

"Cheers!"

"Enroll in that new sexuality class that's posted on the bulletin board at school!"

"Cheers!"

"Find a gay bar and compare it to this one."

"Ch-"

"STOP!" The read head girl yelled.

"What?" We all asked.

"You." She pointed at me. Crap. The gay bar had totally been my plan for sexual liberation.

"What?" I asked, annoyed to be called out before my idea could be cheered.

"If you don't want to go alone, I'll go with you. Gay bar, gay club, just call and I'm in."

I shrugged, "Okay."

"No, seriously." She grabbed my phone off of the table and plugged in her number. "My name is Rachel."

"Okay." I shrugged again. "Thanks."

"Seriously." She said. She was looking at me really funny- her eyes wouldn't look away from my face and I didn't really know what to do or say.  I looked around the table, hoping the boys to speak up. They were all staring at us intently. As soon as they caught me looking at them, they began chugging what was left of their beers. I was on my own.

I looked back down to my phone. "Rachel Gay Bar?" I asked, seeing how she'd named herself in my phonebook.

"Yeah," She smiled, "so you don't forget."

"No worries: I won't." I promised her.

But here's the thing: I totally did. It wasn't until three months into my semester (and one month before I was going home), when I was sharing a block of hash with some friends when I decided to check through my phonebook and came across "Rachel Gay Bar." And - after quickly running through that night again in my head- I finally realized she had totally been hitting on me in the Scottish Pub!


Fin

Before you begin making fun of my gaydar epic fail, you have to remember that when I got to Copenhagen, I was thinking that being gay was this thing I might be, but probably wasn't. Like, I knew that might be what was going on in my head, but I doubted it. I guess this is called denial or excessive ignorance of self. All the same, I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever tell you a story where my gaydar works or I have game with the ladies.

Only time will tell.

Now, suggest your points!

The point of today's story is...





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Monday, September 27, 2010

9:09 AM

Are These Girls Hitting On Us???

I'm baaaaaaaaaack!

Hey hos,

I am back with another fabulous story. Are you excited? Were you worried this day would never come? It's okay, so was I. But we made it. You and I, together forever. I promise.

So, we're going to resume our relationship with a story from my time in Denmark. Somewhere around two years ago, I spent four months of my junior year living in the capitol city of Copenhagen and picking up all sorts of fabulous Danish customs which I had to un-learn upon moving back to the states (the hardest one to lose: drinking in class and in the town square as a way of celebrating a good day). This is by far one of my favorite Danish memories and I hope it elicits a few giggles as you read through.

Enjoy!

Are These Girls Hitting On Us???

In my study abroad school, the students were divided up by academic programs. My group, communications and mass media, consisted of about twenty-six kids from Russia, Canada, China and the US. Throughout the semester, each program goes on two or three field trips through Denmark and greater Europe. For the communications program's first trip, we stopped in a small town in Western Denmark named Ringkøbing. 

For our one night in Ringkøbing, we were invited to stay at a convent which had a strict lights out and lock-in time of 12am. Luckily for me and my fellow communication students, our charter bus rolled into Ringkøbing around 8pm. The twenty-six of us quickly decided that drinks were in order, so after claiming rooms and laying down our luggage, we took to the city and sought out the only legitimate bar in the town.  

Now, I have to be honest: I wasn't all that close to anyone in my program. But if I had to name the two people I liked best, they would be Emery and Ekaterina. Ekaterina was from a small town in Maryland and did everything exactly as she wanted, all of the time. As we wandered off of the bus, she complained about all the girls getting dolled up just to grab a few drinks. Seeing an opportunity to cement my social circle for the evening, I volunteered to wear sweats to the bar with her. All of the other girls in our program balked at the idea and continued coating their lashes in Revlon as Ekaterina and I pulled on our scrungiest, comfiest, warmest sweat pants.

We grabbed Emery on our way into the bar and alerted him that he would be our buddy for the evening. So as the twenty-six members of my program found seating in the bar, I cozied up to a table with my two favsies and settled in for a few drinks.

We started out with shots of Jack Daniels on Emery's tab. The bar was named Shooters (can you believe it?) and Emery had on a Jack Daniels t-shirt, so he christened our table "Team Jack" and promised to cover all shots of Jack for the evening. I should have known then that we were in for a long ride. Ekaterina and I took our shots graciously but quickly forgot Emery and got lost in a conversation between ourselves (basically, ripping on the crazy girls in our program. Can you see why we got along so well?). 

I love you all enough to find this bar on GoogleMaps

About two hours, a few rounds of beers, a two rounds of Jack shots later, the majority of our program left Shooters to head back to the convent. Although it was only 10ish, they worried that they would get too drunk to get back on time (a fair argument as the convent was about half a mile away and were navigating the path in the dark). Instead of leaving with them, Team Jack bought another round and stayed on.

We engaged in completely ridiculous conversation and, for whatever reason, Emery kept the shots coming. At one point he got up to get another tray of shots and two Danish girls came over to the table. Ekaterina and I had seen them earlier in the bathroom. They were slim, blond, and dressed in glittering, skin-tight gold dresses. Their hair was teased into crazy angles that only Danish girls can ever pull off. Both girls were wearing heels despite the brick roads of  Ringkøbing. One girl was amazingly tall and the other was a typical height of 5'4 or so. 

The tall girl pulled up a bar stool beside me, "Hi, I'm Lenja." (Pronounce it Len-YA) She pointed to her shorter friend who was beside Ekaterina, "This is Sacha." Ekaterina and I rolled our eyes at each other. We were used to girls trying to get in with us just so they could hit on Emery; he was gorgeous and though I was figuring out how gay I was at the time, even I couldn't deny Emery's good looks. Tall, brunette, and just dark enough to look exotic without implicating a specific country of origin, Emery was smart, he played soccer, and he was amazingly fit.

"Our friend's name is Emery," Ekaterina said. "No, he's not taken but he is from Canada and is only in town for the night."

Lenja and Sacha looked at each other awkwardly. Sacha finally slid her arm around Ekaterina's shoulder. "I don't care about what your friend's name is. What is your name?" I felt Lenja drop her hand to my thigh and I looked over to Ekaterina, who was clearly just as confused as I was.

We introduced ourselves as it began to dawn on us that maybe, just maybe, we were getting hit on. This is when Emery choose to re-join the table. Emery took one look at these girls and, knowing just how gorgeous he was, began hitting on them with a confidence that only boys who always score can have. Ekaterina and I  continued to stare at each other in shock and mumble incoherent words every now and again. Very quickly, we could see Emery's distress as the girls tried to ignore his advances and continued to touch and look at Ekaterina and I. Finally, Lenja and Sacha couldn't handle it anymore, and they left the table.

Emery inquired about our guests immediately, "Did those girls seem weird to you?"

We burst out laughing. "Oh my God!" We shrieked between shots, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!"

"We're wearing sweats!" I screamed! "Sweats!"

"I know! I can't believe..." We burst out in more giggles.

"What?" Emery asked, looking at us both cautiously. "What are you two going on about?"

"Hitting on us!" I half whispered to Emery, "those girls! They were trying to pick us up."

Emery shook his head, "You're joking."

Ekaterina, "As I live and breathe! They think we're sexy-"

"In our sweat pants!" I finished. We both burst out in more giggles. 

Emery looked at us both with new found respect. "Whoa. That's kind of hot."

"Oh shut up and take us home," Ekaterina ordered as she and I polished off the last two shots on the table.

The first quarter mile of the walk back to the convent was simple: we filled Emery in on exactly what had happened while he'd been retrieving the final supply of shots. Then Ekaterina and I decided to hold hands and pretend we were actually together since we were obviously super awesome (and so super drunk). It's around this time that we came across the construction site. Ekaterina had to pee and recruited me to go with her. "Girls don't let friends pee alone." She said. 

"Or girlfriends," I corrected. We began giggling all over again and the next thing I remember we were both fully clothed lying on our backs side by side in front of a bulldozer. 

"Oh no." Emery was standing above us looking worried. "Get up, we have fifteen minutes to get back."

"No," Ekaterina shouted, "we're sleeping out here. In the dirt." She grabbed my hand. "It's okay, Abernathy will stay with me."

"No no no no no," Emery shook his head. "We're all going back to the convent."

"I don't think so." Ekaterina taunted.

"If I have to pick you up and carry you back, you're going home. Is that understood?" I looked over at Ekaterina. She had a crush on Emery (like every girl in our program... but me) and I could see the gears turning in her head.

I sat up. "I'll walk home if you carry Ekaterina." 

I am such an awesome friend.

Emery looked at me suspiciously, but he bent down and picked Ekaterina up anyway. She didn't let go of my hand so I stood up as Emery hoisted her over his shoulder.

As we walked through the glass double doors of the convent, we heard the automatic clocks click to lock us in. Looking up at the clock in the corner, we realized we made it home seconds before our deadline.

***

Today's points:

My friend, K, says the point of this story is I make a cute butch lesbian. I disagree (I'm sure I make a cute butch, but that's not The Point). I think that the point of this story everyone is attracted to ladies who are comfortable in their skin. That and people always think you're hottest when you aren't even trying. In sweats or evening gowns, if we're comfy and having a good time without worrying about impressing anyone, those are our magic moments.
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Wednesday, July 14, 2010

3:15 PM

Beware of Plastics

Dear Friends,

Remember when I said that one day we'd start Tarantino-ing my life stories? Well today we're only moving forward by a few months. Welcome to my eighth grade year. This story disturbs me because it makes me remember myself at my worst, but at the same time it's a story that I LOVE to tell people. 

So now I'll tell it to you.

Beware of Plastics

My final year of middle school I belonged to a clique that ran itself like it's own mini country of baddassery.  We had an army of boys, a nation of hanger-ons and groupies who followed our orders, and a number of alliances with our fellow cliques. At the time of this tale, I was part of our clique's government.  It was a government constantly in flux due to constant revolution and metaphorical assassination.  At the time, there were three of us heading the clique: Nikki, Pandora, and myself.

I can't tell you why we thought we were so cool because I really don't know.  Maybe it's because we snuck out a lot, but at 13 we were only walking around town in the dark.  Maybe it's because we went roller skating every single Friday night and hung out with high school kids who provided us with CDs sporting parental advisory stickers. Or maybe it's because wore embellished flare jeans and put on makeup every morning as soon as we got to school (we had no choice: our parents didn't permit us to wear anything other than Lip Smackers). Maybe it was all of these reasons. Whatever it was, it obviously isn't a standard for measuring "cool" nine years later. 

Anyways, Nikki, Pandora and I had English class together. The three of us were the only students in the class with assigned seats. Our teacher, Ms. McMillian swore that if we sat together, we would pass notes constantly. On a balmy day in April, Ms. McMillan stood in front of the class and introduced a new girl.  Her name was Jody and she was--in a word--a mess. Jody was taller than anyone else in the class by at least five inches, but her eyes surveyed the room with genuine fear. Her hair was brittle yellow and fashioned into an uneven bowl cut that looked as though she'd used safety scissors to cut it herself. Jody wore a pink plaid shirt that was at least two sizes too large and she had braces.

When Ms. McMillan finished introducing Jody to the class, she told Jody to pick a seat.  Jody's murky brown eyes whirled around the room cautiously. Eventually they landed on the seat next to me.  I smiled, said hi, and scooted my book to the corner of the desk to share it with Jody.  Rule number one of being an "it girl" is to make those below you effing love you. You've got to be kind before you can be cruel, otherwise they'll never stand for your ridiculous behavior.

Class went on without a hitch and afterwards Pandora, Nikki, and I walked to lunch. We had a table outside which everyone understood was our table. As we sat down to eat we saw Jody standing in the pizza line, crying. Because of the laws of  It Girl World, Nikki approached Jody to ask her what was wrong.  Of course, Jody didn't have any friends yet and therefore had no one to eat with. Nikki invited Jody to join our table: since it was her first day we could afford to be nice.

Jody ate with us for the next two weeks. And soon she began following us around all of the time. From English class to our lockers to secret meetings after school, Jody was with us. Her fashion didn't change at all in those two weeks, which was a problem. But even worse, she didn't take advantage of the gift we were offering in letting her hang out with us: Jody never contributed to the conversation. By week three we still didn't know what kinds of boys she liked or what her hobbies were, we didn't know how she got along with her siblings or what kind of music she listened to, she didn't even talk to us about whether or not she got along with her parents. We didn't know much more about her than we did on her first day on campus.

So, we decided to break up with her. All of the eighth graders had PE at the same time; first thing in thing in the morning. We decided that would be the perfect time to let her go.

It went down like this: Pandora, Nikki, and I rolled into PE fifteen minutes late. After getting thoroughly reamed out in front of the whole class for showing up late, we picked a corner spot in the gym and waited for Jody. No less then thirty seconds later, Jody scooted across the room to sit with us. She smiled as she approached. "Hi," she said.

Nikki, Pandora, and I all met eyes. Nikki nodded towards me, "Do it." 

I placed my hand on Jody's calf, in an effort to seem compassionate. Her legs were unshaven and I swallowed to keep from recoiling. "Jody, this really isn't working for us anymore." 

"What isn't working?" Jody's smile started to fall.

"You and us," I said, motioning towards Nikki, Pandora, and myself. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to be our friend anymore."

"What?" Now Jody's eyes were panicked and I thought back to her on her first day of school in Ms. McMillian's class. "Why not?" Jody asked.

Pandora twirled her hair around her finger as she took over the conversation, "Look Jody, it's not that we don't like you, but we don't know anything about you. You never tell us anything. You never talk with us about boys or music or class or anything."

Nikki pretended to look bothered, "I think other friends would suit you better."

By this point, tears rolled down Jody's cheeks. Pandora, Nikki, and I looked at each other, trying to decide what to do next.  Finally Jody spoke up, "I can talk more.  I'll start to tell you things.  I like listening to Britney Spears and my parents are in the military." She took a deep breath, "I know you all. I know that Abernathy doesn't even like the boys you eat lunch with-"

"Yes she does," Pandora interrupted. 

"No," Nikki said, agreeing with Jody, "she doesn't. But that's okay; Abernathy speaks up, she dresses like the rest of us..." Nikki's eyes roamed over Jody's mismatched gym uniform as her words trailed off.

Jody sobbed even harder, "I'll let you give me a makeover. It's okay, we can fix this."

Nikki shook her head, "No Jody, we can't.  It's too late."

Jody looked at all of us pleadingly, "I don't have any other friends."

Pandora shrugged and Nikki and I rose to head to the locker room. "Make some."

***
The next day in English class I did my best not to say anything to Jody. She looked over sadly through most of the class, but I did my best not to return her gaze.

At lunch that day, I was the first to reach our table and was surprised when Jody approached me.  I looked up from my meal to see Jody wearing a green plaid dress. It would never fly with my group of friends, but I could see she was making an effort. "Can I eat with you today?" She asked, "I mean, until I find new friends."

This seemed fair enough to me, but I knew better than to make a decision without first running it by Nikki and Pandora. Rule number two of It Girl World: you cannot make your own decisions.  I told Jody to hold on, then I went and found my friends in the lunch line and explained the situation.  Nikki shook her head, "Absolutely not. We said she's out and I mean that; she's out."

Slowly, I walked back to Jody. I shook my head, "I'm sorry." Jody walked across the courtyard, sat down against a wall and spent the rest of the lunch period sobbing.

***
I never talked to Jody again. She ended up becoming good friends with two girls who didn't care what she wore and didn't judge her for not talking about boys all the time. I always thought she looked genuinely happy with them and I hope that she's just as happy wherever she is today.

That summer (about six months after this story takes place) I received the Jody treatment and was dumped from the clique as well...but I'll save that story for another day. 

Fin

The Points of Today's Story: 
(1) Karma will get your ass. 
(2) Being cool is not necessarily the same as being happy. 
(3) When you do horrible things to nice people, it haunts you and you'll still feel horrible about it nine years later. So just be a nice girl.
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Tuesday, June 29, 2010

6:31 PM

My First Kiss


Hey Friends!

I was just thinking that this blog keeps going backwards in time.  Luckily, I don't really have much of note to share before this story, so we'll start to Tarantino this shit soon. It'll be effing awesome.

As for tonight's tale.  It's about my first kiss, which funnily enough was with a little lady. Unfortunately, I don't think you're going to hear about my first boy kiss which was probs only a few months after this story. It was really awkward and embarrassing and actually pretty disturbing once you know all the facts. I feel I need a shower just thinking about it, ick.

Now on to my cutest tale yet...


My First Kiss
Up until eighth grade, I was a Girl Scout.  So I went camping every summer at least  once.  Friends, I need to share with you that I effing hate camping. But you know what I do like? Lock-ins. You and all your friends gorge on soda and candy and stay up all night giggling and running around a church/gymnasium/rec center/series of classrooms and in the morning you get to hate your parents for waking you up before noon. It's so fucking awesome.

Luckily Girl Scouts do lots of lock-ins. We did all our lock-ins in the council building which was a giant fortress complete with it's own Girl Scout store, gymnasium, kitchen, and dance studio.  The lock-in around which this story centers was for the older girls from all over the region.  It took place the summer between seventh and eighth grade, starring me as a super arrogant 12 year old. (Wholey mackerel friends, that's ten effing years ago!)  

We had a fantastic turn out for the lock-in and our council building was jam packed with pink duffel bags, poofy sleeping bags, and oversized teddy bears.  We played lots of get to know you games and crafted with yarn and sparkles and glitter.  I had a fabulous time.

Eventually, the time came for lights out.  Now friends, my mom was a Girl Scout leader, meaning I was accustomed doing whatever the fuck I wanted.  Obviously, this meant I wasn't going to really go to sleep during lights out.  At first a bunch of girls stayed up with me to play truth or dare, but we got found out and scolded.  Then most of the girls went to bed.  Alone in a sea of lame-os, I got up and decided to head for the kitchen and see if there was anything worth salvaging.

I got the kitchen and heard someone moving in one of the hallways nearby.  I dropped to the floor and began crawling towards the island, thinking I'd just hide behind it in the shadows.  But when I reached the shadows, there was already someone else there. She was a fellow Cadette, (for those of you who never made it past a week or two in brownies, the pecking order back in the day was Daisy, Brownie, Junior, Cadette, Senior)  with long auburn hair and big brown eyes. We hadn't really gotten to know each other earlier, but with the noises coming closer we exchanged a look of desperation and silently agreed to share the hiding spot.

The ruckus turned out to be a few of the troupe leaders stealing what was left of the oreo cake (so much for that plan.)  After the adults left, I sat in the dark with my new partner in crime for quite a while.  Finally she looked up and said, "I think the coast is clear."  Slowly, we crawled out of hiding and decided to keep on with our night of debauchery. 

Our next stop was the dance studio. We chatted for a while and I learned her name was Mackenzie. I'm not going to lie and tell I know what Mackenzie and I talked about because I don't.  What I do remember is that she suggested we take our sleeping bags and migrate to the hallway, where no one would bother us or think to look for us.  So we snuck back into the gymnasium of sleeping girls and snagged our sleeping bags.  By now everyone was asleep but us.  We tiptoed back to the hallway and set up camp by the water fountain, so it's hum could hide our whispers. 

I remember getting deep into conversation (what on earth do 12 year olds talk about? Does anyone remember?)  Mackenzie and I were both sitting cross-legged and we were so excited about whatever we were talking about that our knees were touching and our faces were only inches apart.  At some point, Mackenzie leaned in and kissed me.  I mean, by my standards at 22, it was only a peck.  However at 12, all I could see was that another girl had kissed my lips. It was like my whole world shifted.  I remember mumbling something and running to the bathroom and having a What The Fucking Fuck moment.  I then returned to my sleeping bag and Mackenzie ran off to the bathroom.  When she came back, I was already in my sleeping bag.  She whispered my name a few times, trying to get me up, but I just stayed snuggled in my bag, pretending to be asleep.  Finally she gave up and went to bed.

The next morning when I woke up, Mackenzie was gone. I never saw her again.

When my dad came to pick my mom and I up the next morning, I told him that some girl tried to kiss me (like I was going to admit that I let her) and said that obviously, she must be a "dyke."  I made sure my tone showed how grossed out I was by Mackenzie's behavior the night before.

I will never forget my dad's face when I said that.  He grabbed my arm, looked me dead in the eye, and said, "Abernathy, don't ever say that word ever again. Ever.  We don't hate people and call them names just because they're different."  I think my mom was just as flabbergasted by my dad's reaction as I was, because she didn't say a freakin' word.  

And you know, I was so ashamed of calling Mackenzie a dyke and having my dad yell at me that I never talked about my first kiss again.

Fin

Today's Point: I'm not really sure... ideas from the peanut gallery? But my dad is pretty effing legit in this story, isn't he? YEAH dad!

Are you guys seeing the theme I'm seeing? What's up with this whole kissing girls and letting them walk off thing? What the fucking eff have I been doing for the last ten years? Obviously, not improving my game at all.
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Sunday, June 27, 2010

5:30 PM

Aahhh, Real Monsters

Hola mi amigas,

Today's story is about MONSTERS.  It's a about a battle between the glittery good and fucking evil.  This is a story that will haunt your mind for weeks after reading it.  

Are you ready?  

You guys, this is a story about SPRICKETS!

...You know what a spricket is right?  A spricket is a terrible combination of a grasshopper and a spider.  I'm not sure that's technically correct, but that doesn't matter.  What matters is that they are horrifying.  Usually, I don't mind crickets and I'm not a fan of spiders. But imagine a spider that can freaking jump to great lengths and bite you! Whoa.

So grab your teddy bear and get prepared for the the tale of...

Aahhh, Real Monsters
In the summer between my junior and senior years of college, I elected to live in an apartment with one of my friends.  We'll call her Ria.  Ria was only a year older than me and throughout college she had easily become my favorite partner in crime.  Basically we did two things when we got together: we got drunk and then we had the best heart to hearts known to man.  I'm not really sure why, but these heart to hearts always resulted in a lot of judging from our friends.  They also resulted in a ton of stupid ideas that no one was kind enough to stop us from testing out.

Luckily, living together was not one of those ideas.  Ria had a super sweet two bedroom apartment. She owned the bigger room and had her own half bathroom.  I got the smaller room and for the most part, the main bathroom was my territory.  Ria only ever entered it to use the shower.  We're both girly-girls from our petal pink toenails to our bedazzled headbands, so having personal dressing stations suited us perfectly.

One night, Ria came home to find me sitting on our couch, wrapped in my towel and chugging a Natty Light (classy, right?). "What's wrong?" she asked as she dropped her purse and rushed to my side.  "There's a monster spider in my bathroom!" I shrieked. "It jumps. It jumps really fucking high." Ria waited a moment, before tightening her jaw and looking me dead in the eye. "Spricket." 

Up until that point, I'd lived a charmed, spricket-free existence.  After Ria explained sprickets to me, she took a shot of tequila, grabbed a broom and headed to my bathroom.  I wish I could lie and tell you that I grabbed the fly swatter and joined Ria, but I didn't.  I hid behind my door frame and watched her like the scared chicklet that I am.

Ria cautiously turned the doorknob and cracked open the bathroom door. She nudged it open with her shoe.  I'd left the light on and as Ria peered inside she declared that there was no spricket. Bullshit!  But when I came out from behind my door frame and attempted to show her the spricket, I was embarrassed to admit that my spricket was gone. Friends, I felt like a five year old who had just made her mom check under the bed for the Boogey Man. Humiliated but determined to save face, I took a shower (as quickly as I could; I knew that fucker had to be hiding somewhere) and called it a night.

The next evening I came home to find Ria standing outside of my bathroom in her towel.  She was looking straight into the room and as I walked up to her, I could see the spricket perched on the bathroom rug.  "I told you so," I whispered to her. She reached into the bathroom and turned on the light. Surprisingly the spricket was even creepier once we could see it in detail! We screamed like five year olds and slammed the bathroom door before running to the security of the couch.

Half an hour and a glass or two of wine later, we were ready to deal with the spricket, which we had now named George. I was armed with a broom and a dustpan, Ria had a dictionary and a knife (I'm serious. I don't know how we survived a whole summer together once you consider our combined brainpower).  We closed the doors to our rooms and stood on either side of the bathroom.  George would have no escape.

I turned the doorknob and kicked the door open.  Ria and I rushed to enter the room and kill George, but just like the night before, he was gone!  After searching the bathroom with utmost care, George was still MIA.  Ria and I both took showers with the bathroom door wide open that night...In case George jumped in and we needed to run out.

In fact, we took every shower that week with the door open.  I spent the week peeing with the door open.  It was a little bit ridiculous.  What we surmised was that George didn't like the bathroom light and so whenever we left it on, he went into hiding.  As you might guess, we didn't turn off the light for days.  


About a week into out standoff with George, I came home to find Ria lining up bottles of household cleaners on the counter top.  As soon as I walked through the door she handed me two, grabbed two for herself, and said it was time to say goodbye to George. We sealed off the hallway and positioned ourselves outside of the bathroom, aimed our spray bottles like guns (I imagined we were the Boondock Saints), and kicked the door open.


I turned on the light and there was George...in the middle of the floor, unaware of his fate. "GET HIM!" Ria yelled.  We began blindly spraying 409, Windex, Lysol, and Green Works.  We must have hit George because he got angry and jumped out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Ria was backed into a corner and honestly, for a minute, I thought she was going to cry.  But she just kept spraying and George the fucking spricket KEPT JUMPING. After about three minutes of non-stop spraying (and terrified squealing) on our part and freaky jumping on George's, George jumped back into the bathroom.


Exhausted, we closed the bathroom door and gave up.  If George could survive the volley of chemical warfare we had just dispensed, we figured he was here to stay.  Annoyed, Ria and I went to bed.  


The next morning I woke up and - out of curiosity - entered the bathroom.  Floating in the toilet was George.  I screamed my victory cry and woke Ria, who had a totally different response: she wanted to pray for his soul.  Friends, I cannot make this shit up.  So we did. We prayed for the spricket named George.  And then we flushed him away.

Fin


Today's Point: Today's story is worth two points; 1. Don't live in spricket infested lands. 2. You've got to learn the enemy's game before you can take him down.
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Wednesday, June 16, 2010

3:31 PM

I'll Be Just Like You... Only Better

Hi Friends!

I'm home sick today with the flu. So I figure, why waste this opportunity to share more of my crazy life with you?

Today's story hails from college.  This is a simple, short, and sweet story that gives you insight into the attitude that shaped my entire college career. Here we go!

I'll Be Just Like You...Only Better
During my first month or two on campus I totally thought my orientation leader was the bomb-dot-com.  Our college was a very small, Southern woman's college so there were a lot of unwritten rules (with girls, there always are).  My orientation leader lived in the senior dorms, which were completely off limits to little first years like myself.  Completely. If you wanted to walk through those French doors and partake in the magic of hanging out with seniors, you needed to be invited in and possibly escorted.  No lie.


Thanks to my orientation leader, I was one of two or three first years to get that invitation early on. I was 17 and new to college, so I totally felt like a badass. I was invited with my (then) best friend whom (for her safety) we will call Minnie.  Minnie was a total suck-up.  Unfortunately, when I hung out with Minnie, I became a suck-up too.

Despite this, all of the seniors all thought we were super cute. I mean, we baked them cupcakes.  Of course they liked us. One night, Minnie and I found ourselves invited to a party in the senior dorms.  This was a Big Deal. We were mere first years who had somehow been granted entry to a senior party within weeks of being on campus.  A number of our freshman classmates approached us to figure out how we did it (I blame the cupcakes).  Some classmates were jealous. Others couldn't care less. 


Minnie and I were in a whirlwind of first year controversy.  Obviously, this just made us feel twelve times more awesome than we did before.  


We holed ourselves up in my dorm room to figure out our outfits for the night and then we headed over to the party. It was crazy. The theme was Pimps and Hos.  You've heard of it, I'm sure.  However, remember, I was at a woman's college. I was 17 years old surrounded by girls in suspenders and slacks, zuit suits and mini skirts, plaid jackets and catsuits.  There was drinking and flashing and kissing and it was literally system overload.  I had to walk away.

Minnie and I sought refuge in my orientation leader's room. She was in there with her girlfriend and they were arguing.  After all of our evenings hanging out in the senior dorms with them, it kind of felt like mom and dad were having it out in front of the kids...only this time it was mom and mom. Girlfriend (GF) wanted to leave the party so she could study. Our orientation leader (OL) wanted GF to stay at the party until the sun came up.

GF:      "Baby, don't you want good grades?"

OL:      "Of course I do, but in twenty years, when I look back on my college career I'm not going to remember the paper I wrote at two am.  I will remember this night and partying with all of my friends."

Friends, I saw the words of OL as words of wisdom.  However, OL wasn't impressing me at all with her GPA. Obvs, she was going about this all the wrong way. Of course, friends and memories are super important.  But so is graduating and being proud of your GPA.

So from then on, I made a pact with myself: "You can never go below 3.0."  It became my mantra.  And wouldn't you know it, I graduated with a 3.26.  Is that phenomenal?  Of course not.  But you know, those drunken evenings spent at parties and hiding out from the Resident Assistants as they patrolled the dorms for drunken underclasswomen  led to friendships I wouldn't change for anything the world.

Fin




Today's point: Throughout life, make sure you allot time in your schedule to party 
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Monday, June 14, 2010

3:37 PM

One Rainbow Fish in the Sea

Hi friends!

I know this is our first time meeting each other but I'm optimistic about our future together.

When I meet people irl (in real life) I always say, "tell me a story." And then they either come through or they fail. Most people when prodded enough will tell you a story. When you get down to it, that's what life is right? Bunches of stories?

The point of this blog is to chronicle my life via my stories. Hopefully, together, we can also figure out what the point of it all is. I am a firm believer that everything in life has a point.

And so, without further ado, here's the first story:

One Rainbow Fish in the Sea
This story starts at DC's Capital Pride. For those of you who may not know, every summer, the queers in most major cities host a series of events for their LGBT community. These events are lumped together and called "Pride". Pride can range from a six hour picnic in the park, to a full two weeks of parties, parades, lectures, workshops, and festivals.

Pride is my favorite holiday, by far. It's like God took Christmas and Halloween and the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving and rolled them into a giant glittering ball of happiness and stuck it in rainbow wrapping paper. I fucking love it.

Capital Pride lasts for approximately 13 days and ends with a parade on the second Saturday and a street festival on Sunday.For me, Pride doesn't actually start until the parade. The parade is like the Christamas tree; you need it to make the holiday real. This year the parade started late and lasted quite a while, but I'm not complaining: I drank, I hung out with my friends, and I was lost in a sea of rainbows.

After the parade, you can feel the sexual tension in the crowd. I mean, you're standing in a crowd of gaymos who are all super aware that the girl or guy next to them is actually a potential hookup or relationship. If you're gay, you know how rarely you get this experience. When I go to Pride, I know the girls like girls so I'm not wasting time trying to figure out how straight anyone is. It's magical.

This year, I was all about the sexual tension and I made sure I was in the dance club by 10:30pm. The first few hours were typical: drink, dance with friends, drink some more, take a break to talk to the cops who are hanging around the block, dance waaaaay more. Around 1:30am, all of my friends left except my lesbi-bestie, Arla.

At this point, we got a little crazy. We began by dancing with all the gay boys. It's so much fun because gay boys + lezzies = surprisingly awesome dance partners with no filters. I also began critiquing the other kids on the dancefloor. That's when I noticed this girl who was standing in a circle of friends. She was wearing a baby blue handkerchief. She was kind of cute. So I grabbed her. I said, "hey, dance with me." She did...and I knocked her beer right out of her hand. I am such a spaz! So of course, I apologized and Baby Blue Hanky said, "It's okay; I loved every minute of dancing with you." Super cute, right?!

So I waited a bit, and I turned around to check her out some more. And wouldn't you know it, that girl wasn't dancing! So I grabbed her wrist, I said, "Dance with me! It's PRIDE! You have to dance." So we did. Song ended. She went her way, I went mine.

Two songs later, I'm dancing with my bestie, Arla, when Baby Blue Hanky shows up behind me, grabs me by the waist and pulls me really close. So we're dancing. And I notice Arla is gone, and Baby Blue Hanky's friends are gone, and we're all alone on the dancefloor (apart from all the lovely gay bois).

Baby Blue Hanky gets really chatty. And I learn she's 23 (I'm 22, we're perfect!), she's an English major (oh snap, I minored in Creative Writing), she graduated college (that's important!), in her free time she writes poetry (oh hay, girl, so do I), and finally, that she lives in Silver Spring, MD (only 20 minutes from the city center...4 hours from my house, but whatevs, you know lezzies know no boundaries. Besides, I'm already in DC at least once a month).

So we exchange numbers. Now here's where I fucked up. I lied. Yeah, friends, I lied to the girl in a Baby Blue Handkerchief. I mean, I gave her my real number. But then she told me to take out my phone and put her number in. And I said, "Hey-yo, I left my phone at my friend's house to charge. Sorry!" even though it was totally in my purse, but it was turned off and I just didn't feel like digging it out. So being the smarty she is, Baby Blue Hanky called me, just so her number would go to my phone.

And then we made out on the dancefloor. That was awesome. Then we danced some more and parted ways.

The next morning, I woke up. I turned on my phone. Baby Blue Hanky's number wasn't there!!! And now it's been 3 days, and I'm sitting around hoping this random girl, whom I met at Pride and made out with in a dance club, calls me up because I actually am interested in talking to her more. It's frustrating.

So Baby Blue Hanky, if you're out there, you've got my number, CALL ME.

Fin

Today's point: Don't lie to sweet girls on the dance floor.
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