The (De-)Evolution of (Wo)man

A friend recently suggested that I write on the weird, comical, and crazy journey of the drunken college heroine. We all know how this ends: ultimately, in tears. The drunker the girl, the harder she cries. What’s really important here is understanding the process of how a sane, sweet, and vaguely unconfident young woman turns into the shoe-less, panty-less train wreck shamefully walking home the next morning at 10 am. For added interest and realism, I have decided to tell this tale from the girl’s point-of-view, as well as the sober outsider’s perspective. As a disclaimer, I assert no moral superiority to our fabulous and fucked up heroine; how many-a-time I have been “that girl”.

Beer 1: The Welcome Mat

Girl: [Yessss, tonight is going to be awesome. Oh, oh gosh, we’re walking into the bar, and I should be looking really hott and important. Where’s my iPhone, I’m sure there is someone who wants to text right now. Ok, here it is, much better. Oooo I should text Pete. No, not yet. I need at LEAST three more beers. If he doesn’t respond, I want to have been drunk enough that I can claim I don’t even remember sending it. Better yet, by about 1 or 2 am, it will look legit if I slip in a few extra “drunk spelling errors” just so he’s really clear that I didn’t contact him sober: Much better.]

Outsider: Self-conscious possibly cute (we can’t tell yet; the Northface is still on and fully zipped) 20-something co-ed shuffles into the bar. She does a “casual” sweep of the bar hoping to see friends, or even vague acquaintances, that she can greet loudly thereby increasing her street-cred as a cool and seasoned bar-goer. She continues awkwardly hugging these near strangers, asking them what their majors are again, and promising amorphous plans about a get together in the near future that both parties know, and are secretly glad, will never come to fruition. This is all done artfully, while sipping her beer and continuing to text her actual friends.

Beer 2: The Insecurity Mollifier

Girl: “Ooo, that guy over there is soooo cuuute. Stacey, look how cute that guy is! Maybe he’s not that cute? He’s cute right? Should I talk to him? Will you go tell him I think he’s cute?”

*10 minutes pass of this same redundant conversation.* Aforementioned “cute” UVA guy…A) already has three other hotter girls on speed-dial and pays no attention to our fabulous heroine, B) is so into himself he probably goes home alone at the end of the night so he can jerk off to how amazing he thinks he is, or C) is there with another guy. At any rate, this ends poorly, and our girl treats herself to another round, and convinces herself that her stunning good looks and obvious clever wit intimidated him into the lap of the brainless booby blond perched in the corner booth.

Beer 3: No really, my tolerance has like, totally skyrocketed!

Girl: “Hey, Ross! What’s up? Oh yea, I know right, there is so much reading for that class! But I mean, whatever, I’m just tryin’ to get drunk, right?”

[Oh shit! Kind of stressed about that reading, actually. Needs to be done ASAP tomorrow morning! Whatever, it’s fine, he totally thinks I’m cool. Hummm what else can I talk about to this guy that doesn’t sound super nerdy. His brain is like the size of a pea anyway.]

“Yea, sooo, crazy night right!? I mean, I’ve had like…at least 7 drinks already. My tolerance is so intense, I mean I go out pretty much every night. Yea, seriously, SEVEN, and that’s not even counting a few shots we took before we went out.”

[White lie. He’ll never know the difference…]

Outsider: He doesn’t care. Drunk male friends may be impressed by a woman’s Russian alpha-male like alcohol tolerance (which is mysteriously never even half as high as women think it is after they’ve had three drinks and are already tipsy). Drunk male acquaintances chatting with our girl at the bar just care how many drinks it takes until she starts making poor life choices and agrees to let him walk her home…and just come in to talk…and just lay down to snuggle…and bitch, just take your pants off already.

Beer 4: I just wanna dance

Outsider: Girl is getting antsy. She needs to nab a guy soon, or at least find one that will ask her for her number, otherwise she feels she has “wasted” precious hours, calories, and a hott outfit on a profit-less night. If a woman denies ever thinking this thought and claims to be above this disgusting, shallow, and insecure philosophy, she is lying.

Girl: [Ok, so like 1:00. Need to make some moves, but there is still a window of opportunity before last call! Time to text Pete: “heyyy betch, whatsas up?! U ourtt??” Perfect.]

Outsider: Girl decides to amp up the sexiness, and hit the dance floor. In Charlottesville, the anti-dance capital of the USA, this is preceded by a solid 10 minutes of whining to friends that she really realllly wants to dance, can’t we please go to Three so we can dance, and I know it’s shady there but just don’t put your purse down, right?

Beer 5: OMG, am I fat?

Girl: “Omigod. OMG, Kelly, look this is so gross. My stomach is totally sticking out from drinking these beers! I look fat right? No, shutup, you look fine, but IIIII look fat! Seriously! Look from the side. Right here.” *gestures to gut area*.

Outsider: This partially explains why it takes girls 20 fucking minutes to go to the bathroom when they go in groups. I don’t wish to spill all of the secrets of the group female bathroom ritual, but inevitably there is some sort of appearance pep talk that more often than not touches on self-believed fatness of the girl. In some cases, it may be true, but no friend (unfortunately, perhaps) will say, “Damnnn, I can see that gut a mile away. You look like a bloated cow.” What is even more mystifying, is that there is either no gut to speak of, or it was already there before 5 beers were consumed and perhaps chica should have hit the gym this week? Again, I’ve been here before myself and know I’m being irrational while it’s going on. Clearly, some sort of diabolic metacognition was at work.

Beer 6: Desperation

At this juncture, many poor choices become distinct possibilities. Examples include, texting (the sleeping, uninterested, and by this point annoyed) Pete repeatedly until he cracks and invites our girl over, or forever deletes her from his phone. Hey, at least something can be said for closure. Other avenues consist of ex-sex, an unexpected hook-up with a male friend that will forever make your relationship awkward, or-on a particularly drunk, desperate, and terrible night- giving your phone number out to the lecherous oldster soberly grinding up behind an unwitting first year. Said “oldster”is most likely a 30-something Darden student prepared to drop an oral resume at your feet, but sadly void of social graces, charm, or basic woman how-to. He may also show signs of a burgeoning belly-paunch signaling the onset of middle age and be sporting a low baseball hat to create a shady mask for the fledgling crows feet blossoming at the corners of his eyes. After debate, consideration, and blatantly ignoring the protestations of her wiser and more sober friend, girl gives out her phone number- a move she will regret upon waking up tomorrow.

Beer7: Waterworks

Girl: “Erin, I just don’t GET it!” *sob, sob* “What’s WRONG with me!?? I’m not hott enough? That’s what it is. It’s because I looked sooo fat in this.” *gasp, heave, sob* “I’m never wearing this again. And I’m never talking to Pete AGAIN. He’s stupid. I’m too good for him anyway!” “St-stttuu…” *SOB* “uupid PETE!”

Outsider: We have come to the inevitable teary conclusion of our tale. I ask you not to feel depressed by the end; I have chosen to describe an “unsuccessful” night, mostly in an effort to understand better myself why so many girls stumbling home around 2 a.m. in the arms of their friends are wailing and are, for the most part, inconsolable. More to the point, if women truly hated this sick twisted drinking scenario, they wouldn’t do it anymore. Or maybe we do hate it, but feel simply boring without the masochistic drama it provides.

Miserable juicy enticing incredible fail...oh, and I'll take a draft PBR on the side

After multiple requests for an updated blog-post (for which I felt flattered: thank you ladies), I've finally decided to buckle down and tackle it. I've been waiting for inspiration to strike these past few weeks. I have not experienced a paucity of experiences, but rather, I realized, seemed to be lacking my general good humor about the whole thing. With this as my disclaimer, I seek to update and to inform, and am not quite sure if I'm ready to laugh...As usual however, I enjoy the general unease, discomfort, and awkwardness these recent events have offered me (in a plentiful bounty). Bullet points have been employed for easy distinction and toggling between men. Definitions have been provided where memory and former entries do not suffice to inform.

Blade: Done-zo. At least, *deep exhale*, my life is not yet relegated to any sort of normality. For this I am grateful. Also for honesty and bluntness (the latter not so much on my part I can assure you). [Previous comments have been deleted and the author takes full responsibility and apologizes for the misrepresentation of said Blade's text message and has been alerted to the miscommunication. She rescinds her criticism.]

Diesel: So, apparently, this facebook girlfriend that appeared was a joke he was playing on another friend and had not told me because he thought it would be "obviously fake". If you mean her hair color and boobs, yes, clearly, but this is also precisely the type of girl Diesel likes. *Cue: "I like my girls a little on the trashy side" lyrics.* Now, if I am not mistaken, this does not make me ill-humored, but rather makes him kind of weird. Why would one take the time to make a fake Facebook relationship I ask you? Mmm. Best not to get inside this one's head. Sadly, last night we met up for what was meant to be 2 beers, and ended at 2 more beers, an atrocious "Gummy Bear" shooter, and G&T...oh yea, and in his bedroom. Ugh. My only solace is that this ended up so awkwardly I will probably never have to see him again. For real. Please remind me about this the next time I say we're just meeting up for a few drinks. Also, remind me not to wear the noisiest damn welter-weight championship looking belt I own when I may have to make a sneaky exit at 7 am. Fail.

The Etymology of "Raw"

Astro Lux was indeed evaded last night. Despite the effect that a bottle of wine, 4 G&Ts and a beer usually has on my judgment, I was finally convinced that evasion was the only viable option after Lux described *read: warning!* his friends as "raw". Now, "raw" reminds me simultaneously of potentially fatal meat and condom-less sex, so the possibility that an entire group of people that one chooses to socialize with can be described as "raw", led me directly to the fountain of all knowledge: Urban Dictionary.

"An adjective describing something completely hardcore and awesome; anything truly amazing and cool; anything tight in the ultimate way; frequently followed by shit, as in 'raw shit'". [HAHAHA] Note: I was not completely remiss. This listing was directly preceded by, "Sex without a condom. i.e. I did that bitch raw." Nice. Ah, and in case we were unconvinced how ultimately tight the word "raw" can be, the sample sentence provided details, "I got a job. My boss smokes bud, dude! Like, we'll have hour-long breaks and he breaks out this bombass nug and I get paid! That's raw!" [Really, you have a job? Although, I do applaud the proficient use of syntax, so OK, you've convinced me.]

The real travesty of Urban Dictionary as a tool in general is that I find the synonyms listed at the top of the page to be slightly unreliable. As a mere budding scholar in the pursuit of a more hood-rat vocabulary, I feel misled by the listing of "sushi", "krispy", and "vagina" as possible options to replace "raw" in conversation. (Clearly I need to avoid redundancy, as to maintain the ultimate-ness of my krispy sushi vagina ways; In combination, that probably means triple raw.)

The official Etymology of "raw" includes descriptors such as, "thick fluid", "serum", "bloody", "sore", "inexperienced" as well as "damp and chilly". In sum, this all still sounds more like someone losing their virginity than a group of purportedly "hardcore and awesome" amigos. Conflicting sources left me momentarily waylaid trying to decide whether the raw-ness of Lux's friends was in fact positive or not.

Ultimately, after consulting Kelly, her text summed up all I needed to know: "Hahahaha, yeah that can't mean anything classy."

Diesel trauma & Astro Lux hones in

So recently, (we already knew Diesel was evil...and yes his name MAY have been inspired by the malicious band of trains in the Thomas the Train series) my "relationship" with Diesel as was (casual dating etc.) went from holding hands and public and snuggling at night, to being ignored for a week and *OH THE KICKER* finding out from FACEBOOK that he's in a relationship with another girl. Free bonus? It tells me they started dating December 13th...before he even contacted me at all. Now, I knew this guy was a jerk and thought it was a maturity delay...come to find the bastard has not one scrap of integrity. In retrospect, I feel he did me a favor by bowing out- who needs someone like that!?

Unfortunately, these events- having severely impacted my self esteem, especially after noting Diesel girl's fake tan and bleached over-processed hair- lowered my man filter, and in snuck Astro Lux. Now, the real gem of this information is that that is a self-inflicted pseudonym. I generally delight in creating them, but really none could top what this character in question had created for himself as a facebook name. I suppose if there is a real piece de resistance of this story, it would be that he randomly friended me and started facebook chatting me a few months ago...and I finally ran into him last week completely randomly at Christian's Pizza at 1 am. Ugh. After survivor hour + 5 more drinks, chatting him up seemed like such a good idea. After Astro Lux explained to me last week that he prefers to be "inclusive" (aka be in open relationships with multiple people at the same time), I successfully avoided him and ignored a weekend text message. Hush: 1. Astro Lux (haha, I can't even type that without laughing...): 0. At any rate, yesterday he sensed weakness and rushed in for the jugular. I may have agreed to meet up at bars this weekend. Hopefully surrounded by a posse so deep he can't find me.

Clearly, this chain of events necessitated a night out at bars with friends and multiple rounds of G&Ts. Sidenote: channeling my good friend Hannah (hope you're reading this- love you!), I felt an overwhelming need last night to move from bar to bar in a joyous skipping, dancing fist-to-the ground pumping motion. Imagine a sort of tribal dance of the drunken hero. There was lots of hopping, butt bumping, and low kicking involved too. Reflecting on this, I realize my friends are very tolerant people and allowed me my fun sans comment.

We arrive eventually at Baja Bean for karaoke and sign up for, what I believe I wrote down as the Spicy Girls. Fresh. Enter (stage right): Busta (it was karaoke...you riddle it out), an eager beaver JAG school UVA Law alum. Anyone who runs at 4am carrying a deadly weapon and wearing combat boots is automatically insane, I'm sorry. (For those of you who never rowed crew at UVA and did not have the pleasure of getting up at 4:30am for morning workouts on the reservoir, JAG-ers do this like 3 times a week rain or shine and it looks excruciatingly un-enjoyable). And Busta was a toucher. A close talking, arm patting, shoulder rubbing toucher...GA I just met you dude, stay in your bubble, yea? Alas, he had good teeth, I was still feeling the need for validation after the Diesel trauma... agreeing to give him my number seemed like a good plan at this juncture. To Kelly, Willa, and Erin: I tip my hat, you tried to stop it. *Sigh*

On a more positive note, Blade was in fact coaxed out to bars. The aforementioned ladies and I had worked out a series of basic hand signals so they could let me know whether they thought he was attractive or not (they never agree with my taste). A simple hand motion around the ocular area was all that was necessary to indicate that yes in fact, he is hott. Trying to keep myself together became impossible, when I looked over at Kelly for "the signal" and she was rubbing her temple so vigorously, had it not looked so ridiculous I might have been worried. At least we were all in agreement.

Expect updates after Saturday. Forseeable hijinks in the near future!

Hitler rang my doorbell

Now, I’m not usually one to write about dreams; I generally think they’re pretty boring. Some of the worst conversations I’ve ever had started out when I was trapped in a car with a friend, and they say, “So, I had the weirdest dream last night!” The obligatory, “Oh, really!? What happened??” ensues, and I take a mental nap for the next 20 minutes. Hypocritically enough, I am about to do this exact same thing, except we’re not stuck in a car together, so feel free to exit at any point.

It’s 1:20 AM and I’ve just woken up, heart pounding covered in sweat, by what may have been THE most fucked up dream I’ve ever had. You be the judge.

So…the doorbell rings. I peer through that creepy little peephole (does anyone else ever feel like they’re offering their eyeball up to unnecessary risk when doing this?? Perhaps I was a mobster in my former life: food for thought). “Who is it already,” you ask? Ah, well, obviously it’s one of my best friends Kelly, a guy I recently went on a few dates with (I henceforth christen thee ‘Diesel’, an unidentified sidekick, and Hitler. Yes, Hitler rang my doorbell.

It was all there, from his prickish fancy boots, the belt stamped with “Gott mit uns” and what was undoubtedly the most unfortunate display of facial hair since Rip Van Winkle awoke from his 20-year siesta. And I KNOW what he wanted: one of the new-born kittens that was hiding under my bed.

“What the fuuuuckkk,” you think. Coincidence: me too. It was one of those dream sequences where your brain throws you a curveball. The current scene was now entirely dependent upon the existence of kittens under my bed, the birthing of which would remain elusive to me, but they were there; and Hitler wanted one.

At some point around now, Hitler took a proverbial backseat, and Diesel took center stage along with his real-life best friend/roommate- henceforward: ‘The Trigger’. Now, Diesel was pissed. I believe it was at this point his countenance turned in to some strange amalgamation akin to, how I would imagine the fusion of 2-faces burned bottom layer and his Joker mask. As this point, I believe my heart rate took a distinct leap. The asshole was also equipped with a machete.

Luckily, I was prepared with my trusty Glock (no, I do not in fact own anything of this sort) and I emptied a few clips that seemed to serve no purpose other than to irritate machete-packin’ Diesel. At the very moment, when I was sure he was going to wield that blade high and slice me to pieces, I awoke. I was flailing more violently than when you wake up after a fun (and gin)-filled night at bars, crack an eye and don’t recognize the sheets on the bed you’ve found yourself in. I threw on the light, panting, and grabbed my journal and pencil to excise this event from my mind. It’s now 1:53. I stop. I smile.

Hah. At least Hitler never got his kitten.

SUPER AZN SKILLZ YO LOL

I have fallen, within the past 6 months, into the deep dark pit of online dating; during this period, my surprise about the utter weirdness of people has somehow managed to intensify daily. The title of this posting in fact, was lifted from an actual Match.com user's account because it made me laugh out loud. Hilarious? Yes. But you have less than 10 words to sum yourself up to a potential date and all you can come up with is, "SUPER AZN SKILLZ YO LOL"??!

Last night I had a first date with a fellow match.com-er I thus dub "Blade" (inspired by a true fantasy of lycra and sequins that was a Blades of Glory Halloween costume). It was a truly great, and if you know anything about me personally, un-blogworthy event. Absolutely nothing disastrous, awkward, embarrassing, or completely dangerous occurred (clearly something is amiss...what about the days of meeting strangers under the ball in Times Square on New Year's Eve? What about sleeping over in the greyhound bus station in Richmond because I was snowed in and intent to visit aforementioned New Year's Eve Loser?? Am I becoming...average???) He was even as attractive in person as his online pictures suggested, which makes telling this story that much less interesting (if positive potential for my future dating life) and made the two bottles of wine we polished off at The Local a pleasantry as opposed to a necessity.

I digress from the original intent of my post momentarilly to mention that Blade is 30. Recently I have been applying a new dating 'technique' shall we say...date progressively older men until you find one at an age where he has finally progressed past the stage of hormone-obsessed, unreliable, pre-teen with a boner. Alas: success!

I continue my digression (because I have piqued my own interest, and it's my blog and I can do what I want). I've discovered, from gritty in-the-trenches research (the things I do to amuse myself...) a discrete series of man stages that occur between 20 and 30. I'm going to lay them out here, but they are in no way set in stone. Feel free to comment, add insight, or suggest additional stages of man you have discovered (must be based on personal research however!!) and if you add a slightly embarrassing story that led you to your discovery, to you friend: instant props.

Stage 1) 20-22: This is a no-brainer. These are little boys doing keg stands and bong rips. If you're looking for a serious commitment, or even someone who rolls over in the morning and remembers you're there (if he remembers your name, he is completely advanced for this stage and a possible qualifier for Stage 2 upgrade) keep walking.

Stage 2) 22-24: Who's getting married? Military men. If you're more interested in getting the rock, than nabbing the ideal man, just look for one in uniform. Otherwise, men at this age are just settling into their careers. They are obsessed with what they do, how they will make money, and are basically self-centered in general. These guys are fun and cocky. If you are looking for a one-night-stand, Stage 2 is your man. Looking for more? They're not ready yet, pass Go, collect $200 and move to stage 3.

Stage 3) 24-26: These men start to think, "Oh shit, I might almost kind of be getting old." Don't be fooled: almost only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades. They quickly rebound from the shock of being a quarter of a century old and start enjoying the benefits of having more money and independence while being simultaneously (and for the last time in their lives) sporting a full head of hair and no noticeable fine lines or wrinkles. This comes at a cost however. There is some sort of crisis that goes on at this stage that prevents our bachelor in question from getting really serious with a girl. The aging party boy is starting to feel like he needs a new niche. Our ex pledge master craves a new and classier brotherhood void of strange hazing rituals, sorority brats, any type of Miller beer, and bitchy girls in general. They start to take into consideration both brains and boobs, but need time to complete this little quarter life crisis alone. I suggest waiting until they've come out the other side and discovered the world of good wine, better conversation, and women that don't look like strippers or ballerinas.

Stage 4) 27-29: This is the final stage of our man stew we've been brewing up here. Let it simmer, sample it, throw in some seasoning and be patient. The previously described crisis is wrapping up, but shows intermittent peaks of rediculous and inexplicable behavior as men start to attend their guy friends' weddings and realize they are still single...and almost actually kind of old. Shotgunning beers on your back porch alone is not as fun as it may sound, and the dog they got at 22 is either dead, getting close to it, or just not cutting it anymore. Make yourself available to a stage 4 man but turn and run if he shows flakiness, general unpredictability, and unreliability. You don't need to beat around the bush with these guys anymore, they respect women that command respect, know what they want, and refuse to settle. Be that hot bitch (and still be nice).

Stage 5) 30-33: Our amazing bachelor has achieved his best single self at this point. It's your turn to show him he can only be truly better under your influence. These guys will be gentlemen, take things slow if they are interested in you, and generally try to woo you if they are interested; there should be no guesswork involved. If they do not display ALL of these signs of maturation: leave. They may never grow up, and if they need a woman to show them how, are they really worth the effort?

The birth of a hypocardriac

While riding in the car with my friend Sarah to get coffee the other day, she cocked her head to the side, wrinkled her brow, and if it were actually possible to see her ear strain, it might even have quivered with exertion. "Do you hear that?...I think my car is like...vibrating more than normal or something?" And so it was coined: Hypocardria. The obsessive, nit-picking, irrational sensitivity we all harbor towards our vehicles.

You all know what I'm talking about. The: I-feel-like-it's-pulling-a-little-to-the-left-(Haha, that's what she said)-weird-clunking-do-you-smell-burning?-do-you-hear-rattling-on-your-side? kind of supersonic perception humans develop when riding in their very own heap of $10,000 + metal. Mysteriously, 99% of the time, only the owner of the said heap of metal notices any of these non-existent maladies.

My dad, and rightful owner of my car, runs out and whips open the door when I go home before even giving me a hug. He turns the key and cocks his ear to the wind like a hungry desert lion listening in for its next meal. Please note, this man was exempt from going to war in Vietnam because he is partially deaf in BOTH ears. There is an audible intake of breath as he listens for the phantom rumbles that convince him I have abusing his real child while driving it around. Step away from the Trailblazer dad.

Then, comes the inevitable "walk-around" check of the car. He finds the fleck of paint from where someone opened their door and hit my car ("You haven't been parking in the furthest spot!") and smudge on my bumper from where someone tapped me getting out of a tight parallel spot. He grows increasingly red-faced, and strangely even my reminders that the first day he bought the car he accidentally mowed it down with the snow-blower and send it in for thousands of dollars of repair, do not assuage his fury. Hypocardria exhibit A.

Inevitably, I succumb to this strange psychological disease last week. While driving to the gym in the morning, I was convinced my car was literally leaning to the left like the leaning tower of fucking Pisa (clearly I had not really thought this through). I frantically parked, ran around my car and checked my tires. Alas, all was well with the Blazer. Unfortunately, there I stood, freezing my ass off in a random parking lot at 7 am staring at my perfectly fine car. Hypocardria exhibit B.