A Christmas Letter from THAT Family

Merry Christmas everyone! It’s us! The family you love to hate.

We hope everyone had a wonderful 2011. You didn’t? Bummer! Feel free to compare your worthless life to our fabulous one filled with achievement and positivity!

Read about our incredible children! They’re already more accomplished than you’ll ever be!

Lindsay is a junior at her wildly expensive private high school. She is a champion fencer, president of the chemical engineering club, volunteers for Habitat for Humanity, and still finds time to tutor that boy with Autism that lives down the street. If she didn’t get straight A’s we’d beat her! Just kidding, ha ha, we’d just passive aggressively verbally abuse her into success instead. All of her activities will inevitably get her a full-ride scholarship to whichever college she chooses, but that doesn’t matter, because we’ve been breeding her to become a Yale Bulldog since birth. Join the military? Fat chance, Lindsay! If you’ve already forgotten about any of the achievements listed above, don’t worry, we’ll remind you all over again when we bump into you at the grocery store in two months.

We are going to tell you that Connor is taking a semester off from his sophomore year at Pepperdine to travel to Thailand to teach orphaned children their ABC’s, but really, he has a massive cocaine addiction and was secretly shipped off to Sunrise Detox Center in Florida back in October. He used to play point guard for Pepperdine and used to be Vice President of the Sigma Chi Fraternity and used to date a girl that we were positive he was going to get married to and produce children-that-look-like-Ralph-Lauren-models with, but instead, his hair is down to his shoulders and his sense of smell is shot to heck. We had to Photoshop his face from a year and a half ago onto the picture we enclosed because if you saw him now you’d think he was homeless and that we were bad parents. The latter part of that statement is what really bothers us. See you in six months Connor! We’ll love you more when you stop bringing shame to the family!

Stephanie is our pride and joy. Stephanie is flawless. If we weren’t so overwhelmingly religious, Stephanie would be our Jesus. She is a senior at Vassar double majoring in neuroscience and Ancient Greek language and literature. She is a member of the Equestrian Club, a leader in the college’s organization to prevent child abuse, and a producer for WVKR (the Vassar radio station). We have left out that she is also a member of the group that advocates legal equality for the LGBTQ community because we don’t want anyone assuming she’s a lesbian. She’s not! We dodged that bullet by threatening to stop paying her tuition. On top of all that, Stephanie has two jobs that she doesn’t need but insists on having to pad her resume. Stephanie is naturally thin and has perfect hair that always looks professionally done. Even when she wakes up! It’s completely unfair to the rest of the female race! She’s probably going to cure cancer in five years and/or single-handedly lead a revival of Latin as the prominent spoken language on Earth. If you hear us refer to ourselves as “Stephanie” at any point in time, it’s okay, we’re just trying to live vicariously through her.  

Dave is still a financial advisor and is doing extremely well. Like, way way better than you do. Like, his salary is triple what yours’ is. Isn’t that wonderful?! I did not marry him for his money. We are just very blessed. And by “we” I mean “me.” I keep busy walking our two pure-bred German Shepherds and dabbling in interior design.

We hope you all keep the Christ in Christmas and have a joyous New Year! And sorry that your invitation to our annual Christmas Party was never put got lost in the mail! It’s nothing personal! Okay, it is.

"Learn from Yesterday, Live for Today, Hope No One Took Pictures."

As much as I dislike self-reflection, I think it’s a very important exercise that forces you to check yourself before you wreck yourself and analyze just how acceptable your day-to-day behavior truly is. I might find dancing on bars and demolishing 48-ounce bags of M&M’s within a two-day period enjoyable, but in terms of my dignity and my waistline, they’re probably not the greatest things for me. For whatever reason, I chose 2011 to go as buckwild as a Flavor of Love contestant and from these uncharacteristic displays of stupidity I ended up learning quite a bit. Sharing is caring, so hopefully my list will evoke some thoughtfulness in you lovely people. At the very least, you’ll get a good laugh and I’ll be transported back to high school where everything I did caused crippling embarrassment and shame, just on a much nerdier scale. Let’s roll:

This year, I learned that wide-necked, off-the-shoulder tops are not a good look for me. I have a short torso, and all the extra fabric makes me look like I’m trying to hide an oopsie pregnancy. This may work for Jessica Simpson, but I don’t have a career to desperately salvage, so I just end up looking chubs.

This year, I learned that I’m actually a pretty ballin cook. I knew I could bake, but apparently the culinary world has a lot more to offer than a box of Barilla and a jar of Classico, and I discovered that. I have mastered gourmet chicken salad, oatmeal chocolate chip pancakes from scratch, and homemade mac and cheese, and that’s just the tip of the spatula.

This year, I learned that bragging that your fake ID “even worked on Bourbon Street!” is not impressive.

This year, I learned that a person can wear big ole Dolly Parton hair, or a tight red cocktail dress, or an obscene amount of black eyeshadow, but should never try to rock all three simultaneously. Yikes.  

This year, I learned that it’s not necessary to buy sunglasses because a new pair will inevitably fall into your lap at one point or another. I had two pair for a solid four years, and managed to lose them both between the months of March and June. At this point in time, I own three, and I have no idea where any of them came from. That’s called being coincidentally advantageous, and I’ve cornered the market.

This year, I learned that I am Charlotte York from Sex and the City. I’m not explaining this. Just go watch a few episodes and try to deny it.

This year, I learned that although gelato has less fat than ice cream, you can bridge the gap and still gain a solid six pounds when you make a habit out of visiting the nice Italian guys that run the joint every single day.

This year, I learned that I’m not as good around adults as I thought. German people don’t appreciate my humor and were not impressed by my botched delivery of “Guten morgen!” The fact that I don’t like sausage really sealed my fate.

This year, I learned that growing up does not actually mean getting any more mature. There is no shame in enjoying a classic Disney movie, calling someone a copycat, and wearing rain boots, Soffe’s, and a bikini top to the grocery store.

This year, I learned that if your core group of friends has more than five girls in it, two of them will undoubtedly hate each other on any given weekend. It’s science.  

This year, I learned that Madonna and Lady Gaga aren’t the only ones who can pull off the whole brunette-to-blonde thing with finesse.

The Year Somewhat in Review

Every year around this time, publications of all varieties will put out their takes on the most important/exciting/influential/crazy moments of the past year, causing us all to think “Oh yeah, he died!” and “Wait a sec, I turned how old?” HAHA just kidding, only people above age 30 wonder that. Sucks. Anyway, I consider this blog to be one of those varieties of publications because I write it and apparently more than one person in Russia reads it (Здравствуйте, друзья!), so that’s all that matters. On that note, let’s chat about the freak show that was 2011:

• The media as a whole ran with the notion that we all have secret desires to hook up with our buddies and shelled out No Strings Attached, Friends with Benefits, and the MTV show Friend Zone. The two movies were basically Black Swan if Natalie Portman would’ve just chilled the fuck out and gotten laid like the French guy told her to and if Mila Kunis wasn’t such a bicurious crack whore. Why they thought no one would notice that these films were the exact same story released six months apart is beyond me, but I’d give the W to FWB based off of Justin Timberlake alone (he is my ultimate). Friend Zone fostered the American young adult’s fantasy that their best guy friend of eight years would look past the fact that they tricked him into being their wingman for a fake blind date just so they could confess their love and hope that it was reciprocated because hey, we all need a fairy tale to believe in. I don’t know why all of a sudden we’ve given up on our hopes of meeting our soulmate in a crowded dive bar on a Thursday night, because that foolproof tactic has worked phenomenally well for everyone I know. It’s nice that Hollywood decided to give us hope that our one true love is posting raunchy Text From Last Night’s onto our wall and not paying for our Panera and that all it takes is some courage to realize our fate, but in reality, admitting your feelings to a close pal only creates an awkward situation and a ruined friendship. If the world’s coming to an end in a year, I’d like to send it off with all of my playmates in tow, thankyouverymuch.  
•  Someone forgot to inform The Situation that “roasting” someone did not mean locking them in a tanning bed for 3 hours so as to achieve that cancerific orange glow. At the Roast of Donald Trump in March, it was clear that Man Grenade (seriously, his face is a modern tragedy) had no semblance of a sense of humor and produced one of the most uncomfortable on-TV moments of the new millennium. There are so many ways that this shebang went wrong: he began by referring to the Trumpster as “mah man.” There is no way the two are on the same playing field, let alone friends. As the crowd started to turn on him, he told them to “Ay ay ooh chill.” That just wasn’t going to be effective no matter what, and at that point anyone without a birth defect would’ve just stepped down and saved face. The be-all-end-all was when Snoop Dogg unwrapped a rillo right in the middle of the entire thing, inviting the rest of the audience to do the same because let’s be honest, no matter how drug-averse you are, we all needed a little weed after that situation debacle.
• Another state came-to after years in a moral coma and finally legalized gay marriage. In June, New York became the seventh state (with D.C. piggy-backing) to let people do what they should have been able to do forever. Considering it took four years from the initial passed legislation for this to come into fruition, NY and its gays had to feel pretty baller about the whole situation. Don’t worry, it gets even cooler: Kitty Lambert and Cheryle Rudd of Buffalo were wed in Niagra Falls at midnight to become the first couple in the state to celebrate the newly-enacted law, and the Falls were lit up in rainbow just for the occasion. I don’t care what your sexual orientation or your feelings toward gay marriage are; that had to be the prettiest effing wedding in the entire world. I really hope the rest of America wakes up soon!
• In September, the whole Occupy Wall Street, 99%, “Your degree will mean nothing in six months” thing started. To be perfectly honest, I have no interest in talking about this for several reasons, but mostly because I still don’t understand what it’s all about. That probably makes me a bad American and a disgrace to my generation. If I had a nickel…
• A teacher at California State University at Sacramento walked out on his class after no one brought snacks. Apparently, psychology professor George Parrott requires that homemade treats are brought to his weekly labs and if the students don’t pull through, they lose that week’s instruction. When he walked out in November, students filed complaints with the university. First of all, those kids are idiots. All they had to do was dump a few dozen packages of Hostess Mini Muffins onto a plate and pretend they Betty Crockered them up that morning and boom, problem solved. Furthermore, who protests class getting cancelled? I totally side with Professor Parrott (sweet name, bro) because I, too, am a fan of the sweets. There are several situations that I would walk out on if there wasn’t food provided, such as a Weight Watchers meeting, or a marriage proposal. Bottom line, those students totally dropped the ball and it’s just another example of a school that no one’s ever heard of producing truly asinine people.   

The Modern 12 Days of Christmas

...because we all know that no one in this day and age would be psyched about three chickens and a dozen Keith Moons invading their apartment. You know the tune:

On the first day of Christmas my guy-that-helped-me-jump-start-my-car-and-then-got-my-number gave to me: a 1.75 of KG.

On the second day of Christmas my guy-who-randomly-knows-my-roommate-who-vouches-that-he’s-really-funny-and-smart gave to me: two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.

On the third day of Christmas my guy-whose-guilty-pleasures-are-also-VH1-countdowns-and-Diners-Drive ins-and-Dives gave to me: three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.

On the fourth day of Christmas my guy-who-suggested-we-go-do-something-together-sometime-if-I’m-not-too-busy gave to me: four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.

On the fifth day of Christmas my guy-who-walked-me-to-class-even-though-his-next-one-was-on-the-other-side-of-campus-and-started-ten-minutes-ago gave to me: fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.

On the sixth day of Christmas my guy-who-came-over-and-watched-a-movie-and-didn’t-even-try-to-go-for-a-feelski gave to me: six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.  

On the seventh day of Christmas my guy-who-brought-me-a-Frappucino-as-I-studied-for-finals-even-though-I-hate-coffee-but-it-was-such-a-sweet-gesture gave to me: seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the eighth day of Christmas my guy-that-actually-called-me-to-see-how-my-day-was-instead-of-the-usual-“Whattup girl”-text gave to me: eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the ninth day of Christmas my guy-who-drunkenly-told-me-how-beautiful-and-special-I-am-but-didn’t-remember-doing-so-the-next-day-hello-awkward-situation gave to me: nine bucks for a cab, eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the tenth day of Christmas my guy-whose-friends-tell-me-he-thinks-I’m-“chill”-and-talks-about-me-all-the-time gave to me: ten fingers for hand-holding, nine bucks for a cab, eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the eleventh day of Christmas my guy-that-I-think-I’m-dating-but-we-haven’t-had-the-“talk”-yet-and-I’m-afraid-to-bring-it-up-because-it’ll-freak-him-out gave to me: eleven minutes of making out, ten fingers for hand-holding, nine bucks for a cab, eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the twelfth day of Christmas my boyfriend gave to me: twelve long-stem roses, eleven minutes of making out, ten fingers for hand-holding, nine bucks for a cab, eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.

I am thankful for laughter, except when milk comes out of my nose. --Woody Allen

Thanksgiving is upon us, and I’d like to take a few minutes out of my hectic schedule of procrastinating and looking at PostSecret to actually throw some appreciation up to the universe for making my life remarkably awesome.

I’m thankful forrrr….

·    My hair and how it hasn’t turned out completely god-awful from any of the handful of at-home highlighting sessions I’ve conducted in my quest to go blonde. Things haven’t been perfect, but I don’t look like one of the skanky skunks I so openly despise, so I think it deserves a high five.

·    Hypochondria for allowing me to realize when I’m actually sick, and when I’m just feeling weird. A trip to WebMD has me convinced that I’m dying of scarlet fever even though it is far and beyond 1905, and I know my days are numbered. After I finally get around to medicating myself, it turns out I just need to spend the day in bed with a gallon of orange juice. Oh Overreaction, you son of a gun.

·    Chopped on the Food Network. Watching it as obsessively as I do always makes me hungry, and then I tend to binge on such gourmet combinations as a red pepper and tomato omelette, half a tub of spinach and artichoke hummus, snickerdoodle dough, and a four month old fortune cookie. After I sit back on the couch, stuffed and Googling the benefits of bulimia, I remember that I’m lucky to have food to eat at all, and I let it settle into my lovehandles out of sheer gratitude.

·    Wanton Judgment. No, I don’t mean having a biased opinion about a dumpling stuffed with pork and shrimp, seasoned with ginger and soy sauce. That would be wonton judgment, and sounds delicious. The fact that a person can wear makeup and blow dry their hair every day and then intelligently contribute to the class discussion about sixteenth century British literature seems to be a difficult concept for some people to grasp. I could retaliate and come to conclusions about someone else’s literary aptitude based on their appearance, but I won’t. Instead, I’ll be happy about the fact that I earn my good grades despite the creepy flirty winks that professors throw my way, and I’ll hope that Judge Judy in the front row enjoys hanging out with her four ferrets this Saturday night.  

·    The words judgment, exercise, and knowledge. It’s humbling to know that after seventeen years of memorizing the alphabet, I can still trip up on some words. The fact that you never stop learning is really a godsend – maybe I’ll finally master how to spell these by the time I’m 70. (While we’re at it, I’m also thankful for Spell Check.)

·    Rain. I’m not a huge fan of what it does to my hair or the fact that it makes people drive like they had a stroke as soon as they merged onto the highway, but I get to pull out my silver Hunter rain boots, and the rest of the day I feel like the Tin Man.

·    Awkward encounters. It’s really quite the test of character when the girl who “secretly” hooked up with the guy you were talking to stands behind you in the Forever 21 checkout line and you’re forced to have a civilized conversation with her without mentioning the fact that she’s a devious slut. Being the bigger person is so satisfying.

·    Drunk Skylar. Not only does she clean up Regular Skylar’s room at three in the morning, she also takes the initiative in washing off the night’s makeup so raccoon eyes don’t occur, deleting any potentially embarrassing text messages, and forgetting to set alarms for things that Regular Skylar really didn’t want to do anyway.

·    Adele’s Someone Like You coming on the radio as I drive alone. During this time, I get the opportunity to belt the lyrics while bawling my eyes out and feeling sorry for myself for no particular reason, and by the time I pull up to my apartment I feel loads better and no one had to witness my ridiculous behavior.

·    Flickering lights. Sure, it might be a sign that my lightbulb is about to burn out (and thus will be burnt out for the rest of the year because I’m too cheap to buy a new one), but I like to think it’s my grandpa checking in on me and trying to be funny. As long as he sticks to silly things it’s not creepy.

·    In-car GPS systems. Being directionally challenged, there is no modern invention I love more than this. I am very honest about the fact that I get lost on just about every journey I go on, and since no one in their right mind can legitimately read a road map, GPS is my go-to. Right down to the condescending way it scoffs, “Recalculating” as I defiantly go the way I think is better, I could not get through a day without that baby. 

·    People who have their lives after graduation more or less figured out. I don’t, and your proactivity has terrified me into believing I’ll be working at the Pillow Pet kiosk at the mall for the next twenty years. Therefore, I’ve finally gotten on the job-application ball and am attempting to plan my future.  

·    Skype for allowing me to see my beautiful best friends whenever I please even though we’re hundreds of miles apart. The fact that I can provide visuals to explain my most recent bout of foolishness is a lot better than forcing them to imagine it themselves. I’m afraid of what they’d come up with.  

·    Whoever left the inky black pen in the study room I’m currently sitting in at the library. I lose my pens all the time, and this one makes my handwriting look awesome. And by handwriting I mean the umpteen doodle hearts I just wrote in the margin of my Ethics notes.

The Five Year Secret

When you like to talk as much as I do, you can rapidly (and accidentally!) enter some dangerous territory in terms of your conversation topics. Sometimes it’s just in the form of telling a story that really didn’t go anywhere, or telling a joke that really didn’t go anywhere, or telling a joke about a girl telling a story about a bus that didn’t go anywhere (ba dum chh), but sometimes a person can get so wrapped up in the art of running their mouth that a secret or two just pops out, and boom, trouble’s afoot. Cartoon characters have it easy, because they can easily grab the slip-up in mid-air and cram it back in their mouths before anyone actually notices that they made a verbal boo-boo, but the rest of us have to either keep talking and hope no one caught our little mishap, or own up to it and get ready for a stream of explanations and apologies to whomever the secret was about. I really don’t try to do this, it just happens! You’ve done worse, I’m sure, like that time you…JUST KIDDING.

On the other hand, there are certain skeletons in my closet that won’t see the light of day for quite some time. Five years, to be exact. You see, while some classified info goes into my mental file cabinet without it’s “Do Not Repeat!” tag, other stuff is highlighted, strung with Christmas lights, and practically set on fire to remind me that it is a major hush-hush topic. I invented the Five Year Secret because was trying to prematurely bail myself out. I figure whatever it is that was done/said won’t hold much importance to whoever it could potentially offend five years after the fact, so it provides a nice buffer for me to forget entirely (thus, avoiding the issue altogether) or we can all share a hearty giggle about our ridiculous selves a half-decade ago.

Let’s discuss which hypothetical secrets that I have zero knowledge about or connection to at all serve as perfect candidates for the Five Year Secret:

Hooking up with a friend’s boyfriend:  If you’re a true bitch, you do this type of thing on the daily and therefore could not care less whether or not you’re “friend” finds out about your dismissively slutty behavior. The rest of the world has Jiminy Cricket sitting on their shoulder screaming “Whooore!” right into their ear. Hopefully if this happens, it was an accident, a one-time thing, and you went home and immediately threw up from the guilt. Ideally, you would tell the friend from the get-go, get the fight over with, and go back to being BFF’s at least a week later (Yes, that long. You hooked with her boyfriend ya skank!). However, if you choose to keep it to yourself, you have no choice but to initiate the FYS. The longer you wait, the more the phrases “Why didn’t you tell me?!” and “How could you do that to me?!” will be thrown around in progressively screechier tones, so it’s best to let the entire situation ride itself out. Five years from now, she will inevitably have another boyfriend and your indiscretion can be chalked up to immaturity, and you two can joke about what a loser he was while your little part in the whole ordeal slides under the radar. If you don’t see it going your way, add a year. Or two. Or just make the bed you lie in and stop inviting other people’s boo thangs in there with you.

·         Let the record show that I do not condone this type of behavior, and I would recommend that you tell your friend that she is dealing with a horribly conniving prostitute friend as well as an inconsiderate, deceitful douchebag of a boyfriend. It sucks, but as a gal pal, so do you. 

Hitting someone’s car: [Assuming no one saw it happen,] regardless of if it was your mom’s SUV while you were pulling out of the driveway or a random stranger’s convertible in the mall parking lot, if you caused significant damage, you keep your mouth shut. These things are very easy to get yourself out of without getting into deep trouble. In the mom’s car situation, all you have to do is quietly drive yourself to a random destination, wait a few minutes, conjure up a wobbly voice and some tears, and call her up with a story about how “Someone must have slammed into it and just driven away while you were in [church/homeless shelter/donating bone marrow/feeding starving ducks] and they didn’t even leave a note!” You’re automatically in the clear, and the imaginary jerk is suddenly the subject of your mom’s scorn. In the mall parking lot, the only option you have is to peel out of there as quickly and stealthily as humanly possible. Some people might think these measures are a little excessive and that five years might be unnecessarily long for something so miniscule, but those people have A) never met my mom’s wrath and B) have never had to pay $2000 for scratching a brand new Lexus parked outside of Subway. After keeping the FYS, your mom probably won’t be able to distinguish an old dent/scratch from a new one, and the poor fella at the mall will have let go of his grudge and learned to park his car in a wide open spot rather than right on the line. Your depth perception might also improve over this time…

Hazing activities: We’ve all heard the myth that in order to initiate into a frat, guys will have to have sex with a goat. We haven’t? Well your eyes just got opened WIDE, didn’t they? Anyway, whether you had to remake the scene from Clerks 2, chug a das boot full of your fellow pledges’ urine, circle jerk, or anything else even remotely homoerotic to prove your allegiance to “the brotherhood,” it’s probably in your best interest to keep it on the DL until you’re out of undergrad. Sure, prospective employers whose connection you received through your fraternity will have allegedly gone through the same thing and will understand your pain, but bros can discuss a lot of ridiculous college events, and jacking off your pledge brother in the darkness of the chapter room is not one of them. This will probably be hilarious to reminisce about after five years, given that Brian didn’t develop some weird bestiality fetish, Greg didn’t get a horrible throat infection from his “cock”tail, and Justin didn’t come out of the closet. What fun would a FYS be without some extra surprises?

Peeing your pants after age 9: You should never admit to this. Not five years later, not ten years later, never. Even if people were there to witness it, vehemently deny it. This is right up there with kissing an ugly person and once having an extra toe; it just didn’t happen. Let’s practice:

“Hey, didn’t you pee your pants in Macy’s once?”

“Nope, not me.”

“What’s up Professor Pee Pee Pants?”

*Look around confused to see who they’re referring to*

“Remember that time you…”

“NO I DO NOT.”

Billy Madison had it completely wrong: you AIN’T cool if you pee your pants. You just ain’t. 

There are countless scenarios where the Five Year Secret is far superior to telling the truth. If you don't know, ask. I'm keeping so many of my own right now my brain might explode, which is pretty telling of how embarrassingly nuts my life is. Luckily, we're closing in on the secrets of 16/17-year-old Skylar, so a huge load will be lifted off of my shoulders soon. And depending on how understanding everyone is, a few friends might be lifted off my shoulders as well. Stay tuned!

Kollege Kid Kard

I think they should hand out passes at the beginning of your freshman year that are similar to those punch cards at Dunkin Donuts granting you a free coffee after your tenth visit. Every time you do something quintessentially “Colleeeeeege,” you get a space punched out, and instead of freebies at the end, you get a diploma. There are certain aspects of college that everyone – no matter who you are or where you go – simply must partake in to get the full experience.

• Making your RA’s life a living hell by wreaking sexual-innuendo-laden havoc on the bulletin board she spent way too much energy decorating? *Punch!*
• Showing up still wasted to class on Friday morning only to participate more than you ever have all semester and probably ever will again? *Punch!*
• Getting into a huge fight with the kid you were sorta kinda dating and texting him at 3am that same night to “see what he’s up to”? *Triple Punch!*

I’ve crammed a lot of calamity into my college experience, but there are some things that I will never receive punches for. And I’m strangely cool with that, because I’d rather save my funtimes up for occasions that don’t put me in hilarious danger or make me look like a complete asshole (at least not intentionally).

Here are the ways in which I lose my Kollege Kid Kard:

Not liking Dave Matthews Band: Getting this fact out in the open puts me in great danger of getting shanked by just about everyone I hang out with, but they can suck it, because the man sounds like he’s had the hangy ball in the back of his throat shot with more than the recommended dose of Novocain, and I can’t stand it. “But Skylar, he’s a great song writer!” “But Skylar, they’re such influential philanthropists!” “But Skylar, how could you not love Under the Table and Dreaming?!” I SAID SUCK IT. I’ll take it a step further: A lot of their stuff sounds the same to me; I get “Crash Into Me” and “Where are You Going” confused all the time. There is a certain thing called variety, and Dave ain’t got it in my book. If nothing else, I should probably feel some sense of camaraderie towards the guys based on the fact that they’re from Charlottesville, VA, which is very close to my hometown, but I can’t/won’t even give them that, because Charlottesville is boring as shit. So go off and follow them around like the Deadheads of the 21^st century; Incubus is better anyway.

Never having bonged a beer: I am 5’0” (5’1” on a good day), and although the speed with which I can scarf down a Bruschetta Chicken Burger from Red Robin might suggest my stomach capacity is similar to that of Joey Chestnut’s, physically and logically it just cannot be so. Therefore, I am understandably not comfortable with the idea of that much beer entering my body that fast, and me not either puking or burping in a very manly fashion. Anatomy aside, I have a few personal qualms with the whole “beer bong” practice. For starters, I’m not a chugger. Relaxing my throat sends beer straight down my trachea. I have no egotistical need to be a hero, and I don’t try to be. Secondly, I have a one-track mind that is excellent for quick delivery of That’s What She Saids, but not so great when anything tubular is in or around someone’s mouth. A lot of the time, beer bongs are taken on the knees, and that opens up a whole new world of naughty jokes altogether. Finally, pouring a beer that fast results in an absurd amount of foam, and that’s not only hard to swallow but also a huge waste of my time. I’m just fine casually sipping my classy whiskey and Coke and observing the other party time favorite in which I will never participate: keg stands.

No stories involving homeless men: Honestly, I’m kind of crossing my fingers for this one to still happen, but only if the experience turns out as awesome as some of my friends’ have. For instance, one of my good friends met her hobo pal while cutting through a field on her way home one night. His name was Gravel, and they met on the train tracks. Although the story had all the makings of a Dateline Exclusive, Gravel was very kind and directed her and her friend through the field so they could get back to campus. He may have been missing about 97% of his teeth, but she’ll be damned if he wasn’t helpful. Something similar happened to another one of my friends as she and a couple of other girls were walking home from a bar. Unfortunately, their hobo friend wasn’t nearly as helpful or sweet, didn’t have a cool name, and I’m pretty sure they had trash thrown at them. Still, a story’s a story, and I’m always looking for something new to add to my arsenal of ridiculousness, so if I have to put my personal safety in jeopardy and risk getting taken away to someone’s underground vagrant lair in a storm drain, I’m all about it.

Never attended a PCB Spring Break: I know, right?! How could I possibly have made it to this point in my life without a visit to the Mecca of drunken tomfoolery? Actually, that’s probably exactly how I’ve made it to this point in my life. A trip to Panama City, Fla. leaves you susceptible to any or all of the following things: dehydration, amnesia, Chlamydia, crippling regret, babies. I don’t need any of those things in my life. That is not to say I’m entirely opposed to the idea, though. There are certain aspects of a PCB Spring Break that I would definitely be a fan of, such as meeting D-list reality TV stars, participating in booty shaking contests, and working hard in the gym for three months prior to the trip only to have picture upon picture taken of myself sporting an embarrassing beer belly. How have I deprived myself for so long?  

Not owning Vera Bradley merchandise: I love colorful things. I love printed things. Colorful printed random things that are attention grabbing and girly and wonderful. That being said, I cannot stand Vera Bradley. At first I thought it was just the popularity that got to me. Everywhere I looked, there were hundreds of girls with the backpacks holding the matching laptop case with a matching ID case on their matching lanyard, and suddenly I was so overwhelmed by “Safari Sunset” and “Pinwheel Pink” that I almost threw up quilted paisley florals all over myself. On second thought, it might be the names of the patterns themselves that riled me up. It can go anywhere from just plain “Olive” all the way up to “Floral Nightingale,” and quite frankly that’s a lot of creative license for someone to take. “Twirly Birds” in pink OR navy? Can you even do that? The fact that there are so many options and it seems as though people only own stuff in “Rhythm and Blues,” “Happy Snails,” or “Make me Blush” is just ridiculous. Finally, Vera has taken it way too far in the sheer variety of products she sells. Duffels, garment bags, makeup cases; all good and well. But then we get into the curling iron covers, the placemats, the coolers, and the photo albums, and I feel like she’s being a little greedy. Cornering the market and knowing your audience shows excellent business savvy, but who in their right mind would pay $22 for a stationary set? I’ll stick to something a little less Java Blue, thank you.