First Ten Memories of the Decade

27 12 2009

As in, one memory per year of the decade. In chronological order. Not the most important memories or the best or the worst, but the first thing I remember about each of the years involved.

AKA, a completely arbitrary list, my favorite.

THE FIRST THING THAT COMES TO MIND IN…

2000. I graduated from 8th grade in 2000 and I remember that there were 83 kids in my grade (I think), we all had to wear light colored dresses, and that there was a huge debate about whether Vitamin C’s “Graduation” or Green Day’s “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” should be our graduation song. Green Day won because someone could play it on the guitar, but then you couldn’t hear the guitar anyway. Also this one girl got her period and it went right through her dress into a puddle on her chair and it was probably the most embarrassing day of her life, but I think we all learned a valuable lesson about wide set vaginas and heavy flows that day. Also, about tampons.

2001. Freshman/Sophomore year of high school. This was the first year that I kissed a boy outside of a game of spin the bottle (which I continued to play throughout college and really, hope to play for the rest of my life.) It was super awkward. There was a Spongebob Squarepants marathon involved and a day sledding at the high school and a bout of wrestling. A lot of this encounter may explain a lot of things about me, including my love of Spongebob and also my love of challenging people to wrestling matches. I also kissed a boy at New Year’s that year. In one scenario, I stomped on someone’s heart. In the other, I got my heart stomped on. 2001 was a really tough year for several reasons, those included.

2002. Sophomore/Junior year of high school. While doing my six hours of driving to get my license that year, my driving instructor was nuts. He asked if he could smoke while we were driving. We had to stop at a gas station and fill the car up with oil, which it was leaking. We went to another driving school’s course to learn how to parallel park. A car from that driving school showed up, and my teacher was like, “We have to leave. Now. NOW!” He basically got stared down by the other car while we were leaving. Once slammed on the breaks while I was driving and said I had to be prepared for everything (including, apparently, a driving instructor slamming on his breaks). So. Effing. Weird.

2003. Junior/Senior year of high school. I remember very specifically getting my SAT scores in the mail and not being able to add the numbers in my head, so when my parents said “Sarah!” I couldn’t tell if it was a good thing or a bad thing. Only when my mom said the number outloud did I realize that a) it was a good thing and b) it was highly ironic/pathetic that I did so well in math and did not have the math skillz to decipher how well I did. It was the start of a lingering suspicion among many relatives and friends that I might actually be an idiot savant.

2004. Senior year of high school/Freshman year of college. Right before high school graduation, a few of my friends and I went down to our shorehouse to have fun. I’m pretty sure my cousin bought me alcohol – first and last time. Over the course of the few days, we were invited to a party at the house at the end of our street. We attended and realized about half way through that it was a party being thrown by a bunch of police officers. Being 18 (or 17 in some cases), we decided it was definitely in our best interest to stay at this party, do Irish car bombs with these cops, and try to coerce many of the cops into taking pictures with us. In true Jersey Shore form, this is not even the dumbest thing we’ve ever participated in down there, but it was epic to our high school lives. Also constituted perhaps the 3rd time I ever drank in high school, which contributed to a very messy freshman year of college.

2005. Freshman/Sophomore year of college. In the spring of 2005, I convinced friends to both punch me in the face and hit me with their car (very low speed, no worries). For getting punched in the face and refusing to tell my RA why I had a black eye, I was sent to psychological counseling and had to explain to the head of housing why, exactly, I had asked someone to punch me in the face. I was written up. I was told statistics about how many women get abused and murdered in Chicago every year. I was told that I should have just used make up if I had wanted to see what a black eye was like. But, I was happy. Also, I have been punch free since 2005.

2006. Sophomore/Junior year of college. The summer I almost died from a mysterious virus a la a House episode. Still got full credit for my internship, despite missing almost an entire month of work – good thing, since I really needed that .25 credit to graduate (PSYCH. Pointless.) My most clear memory of those weeks in the hospital is that I was in the children’s wing despite being 20. And was prescribed anti-depressants that I refused to take for the following reasons – 1. I had not gotten out of bed in a week. 2. I had not had any visitors beside my parents in a week. 3. I had had the blinds drawn for a week. Reasons why I refused to take them: 1. I could not get out of bed because I had an IV in both arms and couldn’t really “move around.” 2. I was in the ICU, where no one besides your parents were allowed to visit. 3. The sun shone directly into my eyeballs if the blinds were not drawn. There were a lot of choice words exchanged that I later regretted. But to be fair, my doctor also said that depression was not really my main problem when they still didn’t know what was wrong with me. Well-intentioned AND r-tarded.

2007. Junior/Senior year of college. I spent my 21st birthday with my best gays at a lesbian bar, where we basically harassed a lesbian named Sherri who very clearly wanted to be left alone. We bought her drinks and got her wasted while getting wasted ourselves. Later, I got shots while on line for the unisex bathroom once I realized that answering “I don’t know” to the question “Are you into girls?” is a surefire way to never pay for drinks at a lesbian bar. Danced with a big black lady named Choppa who proclaimed, “For a white girl, you sure got moves” which remains to this day one of the nicest compliments I have ever received. She wrote her number on a napkin and told me to call her. I did not.

2008. Senior year of college/Freshman year of life. The best party we ever had at Flop Haus was Paul’s and my engagement party. Not only did Paul propose to me on stage at the premiere of all the films we made that year, we later had a totally ridiculous, totally fun party where we even received presents. I believe our friend James gave us 37 cents, and Jackie made us a wedding mix which I lost for a full year, and then recently found in my room. There was a make out contest. There was a dance party. There was spin the bottle. There were a lot of ridiculous pictures and a lot of things that I can’t actually remember, but all contributed to one of the most fun nights of college. In fact, concluded my suspicions that spring quarter of senior year is the only reason that most people miss college; best three months of my life.

2009. Freshman/Sophomore year of life. While working at the video store with Travis one night, this lady came in and talked to us for at least an hour about a book she was writing about a string of murders that had taken place in our town in the 70s. I had never heard of these before, but she insisted that they were all committed by the same person – her husband at the time. She said that he used to sleep with a machete under his pillow, had gone crazy from being in Vietnam, and had tried to kill her several times. All of the bodies were killed using a machete. She was writing a book about it and promised to give us a copy of it, but then did not leave any sort of way to contact her. Super random, super creepy, and left us wondering if maybe she was actually the murderer and was just telling us the story so that we would not suspect her. Particularly after she used me as an example of “exactly the kind of girl that got murdered.” Too bad Clerks exists, because Village Video is ripe for a movie.

Altogether, a good decade.

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Things to Come

18 12 2009

Since I will apparently be snowed into my house tomorrow, I am sure I will have time to write these things down.

1. Home sweet home again.

2. Marijuana alive and well DURING A FLIGHT ACROSS THE COUNTRY. Way 2 go, airport security.

3. My true, New Jersey thoughts on MTV’s Jersey Shore.

4. A breakdown of the livejournal I just broke down. It’s 400 pages long. This will maybe take a while.

5. Maybe some end-of-year thoughts. I guess end-of-decade, but I’ve heard some mixed thoughts as to whether this is actually the end of a decade or not. Seems to me it is because there’s no more aughts to be had?

More to come. To keep you entertained, Paul finally updated our real-life-fan-fiction! http://pruse.wordpress.com





The Case of the Unclaimed Vomit

29 10 2009

In my effort to reinvigorate my abilities to “blog” and “document” and “beat the unemployment boredom”, this story is one I meant to write about a month ago, when it first happened and when it was still a big mystery. Correction: it still IS a big mystery, but not necessarily one that I think about anymore.

Which is probably good, because I believe I think about throw-up far too often.

The Crime Scene: Ms. Lady’s apartment. Ridge and Davis. Heavenston.

The Set Up: Several friends who have not seen each other in months, some in nearly a year, are gathered for a reunion of sorts. Like any good reunion, this reunion involves yelling and screaming into all hours of the morning and attempting to stay up drinking until 9 AM, when the Lady of the House has to leave to attend the first class of the school year. Flawed? Certainly. But some of us died trying. We made it pretty far into the night. Visits from other people we’ve known throughout our college years peppered the evening, replete with a lot of random pictures taken on a Nintendo DSi, of all things. There was singing. There was dancing. There was a secret tryst or three. There. Was. Chaos.

Circa 6 AM, all of the non-sleepover revelers had dispersed back to their selected homes and those left were the travelers staying over. We all survived another hour or two staying up. The Brothers Maguire passed out first. I stayed up with Ms. Lady until she actually did “pull herself together” (quotes because the effort was strong, but ultimately, not great) and go to class. Thus, I went to sleep around 9 AM, when she was gone and everyone else slumbering.

Dilemma: Sometime between that 9 AM parting and re-awakening around 1 PM to pee, someone in our midsts puked all over the bathroom.

And I don’t mean a little bit. I mean like, swamp conditions. You sunk my battleship sort of puke. It was everywhere. Too drunk/tired/confused/disgusted to do anything about it, I left it, used all of my leg muscles to pee without touching the puke, and went back to my spot on the futon.

Around 4 or 5 pm, everyone woke up and suddenly, the vomit was not as easy to ignore. This is a 3 BR, 1 Bath set-up, my friends. There is only so long that a bathroom can be out of commission with insides debris. After the Lady of the House cleaned up, the question still remained: who woke up in the middle of the night (or mid-morning, to most people), puked all over the place without waking anyone, left it without even an attempt to clean it, went back to bed, and then completely forgot about it?

The case was afoot.

Suspects:

1. Myself. I DIDN’T DO IT. Not only did I not eat enough to do all of that biz, I was asleep last, awake first, and apparently starting to sober up by the time 9 AM rolled around. Also I would’ve at least wiped the seat off. Probably would have left the peripheries as they were, but the seat would’ve been sittable.

2. Lady of the House. Doesn’t remember it. Went to class during the time that she would’ve puked. Although, curiously, she never made it to class and returned from her full day of classes circa 11 AM after giving up on going to class and having brunch with a homeless man instead. Curious indeed. She had the food. She had the time frame. But why wouldn’t she clean up her own bathroom? It doesn’t quite add up.

3. Brother #2. Passed out first, woke up last. Slept through at least 2 hours of conversation taking place right next to him. Didn’t feel this kid even roll over in his sleep on the futon, let alone get up and puke and come back down. Unlikely.

4. Brother #1. Our main suspect. Not the kind of kid who would ever clean up his own puke. Also definitely the kind of kid who pukes everywhere (one time while we were roommates he puked all over his bed and instead of cleaning it up, just put his sheets in a garbage bag and went back to sleep. Left the garbage bag in front of a fan to waft the smell throughout the rest of the house. Awesome). Spilled a glass of wine all over himself and the Lady’s bed and continued to sleep in it that very night. But does not remember vom-ing.

5. The roommate. This kid’s a wildcard. Everyone had just met him. He went to a bar for a long time and then came back – who knows what he could have eaten and dranken there? Pretty sure he puked at the bar though, so would he have had the stamina to continue to puke later in the evening? Seemed to stay in his bedroom throughout the evening. Claims it wasn’t him. Hard to tell.

6. The mystery roommate. In my four days at this apartment, I did not see the third roommate once. Is it possible that she came home for a few hours, puked, didn’t clean it up because she knew she could get away with it, and then left again? Possumbly. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t rule it out, and neither will Sherlock Hayden.

Case Status: Still unsolved. No one will admit to it. The Lady of the House eventually cleaned it up (why was she so comfortable cleaning up the vomit unless it was her own HMMMM?) and the day continued eventually. All fingers point to Brother #1, even though he will deny it up and down. That shit-eating grin and past experience with projectile lots-of-things-ing in beds/bathrooms/bushes make it a little tough to believe this repeat offender.

All suggestions to solving the case welcome.





A Salty Engagement: Episode Six

2 10 2009

Things are starting to get weird. I think I really enjoy writing from the perspective of Tom Arnold. I really hope he’ll let me write his comeback.

And yes, I’m aware that writing fan fiction about yourself is nothing short of self-centered. But I can’t help how interested I am in my own improbably futures.

A Modest Proposal

“I think you know what I want, Ramos. What we both want.” Tom Arnold stepped over the dead Pole, placing an arm precariously over Telly’s shoulders.

Surprisingly, Telly did not shrug him off. She found herself torn between what her body was feeling and what the insides of her body were feeling. Was that nausea? Or the sting of a love long lost?

“I’m with my little man now, T Arns.”

“I love when you call me that.”

“I can’t leave him behind for something that should have been, but wasn’t,” Telly said, letting a tear slip from her lids and a small sliver of boogs drip from her feminine nostrils. At this point, Tom removed his arm of his own volition. He had lost her.

He stepped back over the Pole, who had started to melt slightly in the hot New Jersey sun, like a wayward drop of ice cream. Shaped like a dead body. Tom Arnold reached into his pocket and pulled out a checkbook, replete with personalized Tweety Bird checks. He chuckled at the sight of that yellow bird. That cheerful, scheming, yellow bird. Mr. Arnold liked to think that he was much like Tweety. Always been chased, always outsmarting the competition. What was he doing? He was wasting this great comparison, nay, metaphor on his internal monologue instead of spouting it to the adoring public in front of him! Fool, Tom. You are a fool!

Tom took another glance at the screen, where Eric was starting to stir a bit from the bed on which he resided. “We are going to play this my way. Since, you’ve clearly chosen this Skinny Glasses Man over me, I don’t think there’s much I can do to change your heart, but maybe I can do something else. Add a little spice to your life. Make it so you never look at him without thinking of me.”

No one had any idea what he was talking about.

“What are you talking about?” Paul asked, his eyes glued to Eric on the television screen.

“The only thing bigger than my heart is my checkbook. Are you aware of how relevant I was in the early to mid 90s? Let’s just say Old Tom made some wise investments, and I am prepared to write a huge check – HUGE – to anyone here in exchange for one thing.”

Paul and Sarah looked at each other, salivating. They would do anything for money. They loved each other very much, but nothing says true love like millions of dollars. Besides, Sarah thought, Paul had neglected to have her sign a pre-nup. So “what’s yours is mine” could potentially become very much hers.

“In exchange for WHAT!” Paul yelled, hardly noticing how loud his voice had become. He hoped not to sound too eager, but Papa needs a new leather money sack.

“For that little man’s head. Unattached to his body.”

To catch up and read Paul’s parts, check out A Salty Engagement: The Blog.





Some Things That Happened in College Once

25 09 2009

And by college, I mean this weekend when I went back to college and pretended to be in college, even though I am no longer in college and thus, miss college. These things will be explained after I am not exhausted anymore.

1. Baby’s First Parking Ticket.

2. The Case of the Unclaimed Vomit.

3. Dirt Squirrels.

4. The Pervs of Route 80 Rest Stops.

5. Testing the Limits of Drinking Abilities.

All of these things are great. This trip to Evanston was easily my most fun one since being in actual college, and was more fun than many 4 day stretches of actual college. Fantastic.

——

What is another name for me, right now?

Answer: A Northwestern Aglumni (because I am so sad about no more college.)

Alternatives: Dirt Squirrel, Tits Tired.