Or, A tale of peeing in Prague.
The year, 2011. The continent, Europe. The mission, impossible.
One day, while living the lives of spoiled brats abroad, two friends and I decided to depart Dublin in favor of sunnier cities and warmer days. Other spoiled brats will know what a pain in your private parts flying budget European airlines is: your luggage can't be larger than a men's wallet and can't weigh more than three feathers, you can't be afraid of most likely dying while landing in the next city, and you must be willing to travel at the most ungodly of hours. So, I packed two pairs of shorts, a few shirts, a one-piece romper, and planned to wear the only shoes I would bring. We slept in our travel clothes for a few hours and then our cheap asses were off to Italy, the Czech Republic, and France. We ventured from Dublin at an hour that belongs to a confusing area between night and morning and where the stumbling drunk people are gone but cafe and newsstand workers aren't out yet. Just us and our taxi.
The weather forecast for this trip was 75 and sunny in every city, and we made sure we had sun screen and were well hydrated. After we left Rome and Cinque Terre for Prague though, we were burnt and thirsty. Our flight delayed and a whole day lost, we slept and rose early to pack in a tour of the entire city in one day. The tour, courtesy of our weirdo hostel manager, would be four hours long. Four hours full of beating rays of deadly sunlight and hot air sucking us dry. I wore my most comfortable outfit: the one-piece romper (shorts and lace-top ensemble) and my one pair of shoes. I vowed to buy a water anywhere we stopped on the walking tour, starting with our hostel lobby, which was the first stop. This is how weird our guide was: He'd etched his favorite Czech people's names onto the door of the hostel, but also included Wes Anderson with no explanation but, "Because of Tenenbaums." Sure. Okay, then.
Fast forward five and a half hours later. Fast forward through the Kafka Museum, Old Square, the bridges, the Lennon wall, the Castle gardens, and six large bottles of water. Finally, escaping from the wrath of Wes Anderson's biggest fan, the three of us asked for a suggestion of a restaurant and then set our for a place called Bar Bar where the food was hearty and the beer was....big. Exhausted and more burnt, we finally plopped down at Bar Bar and ordered the only drinks on the menu: enormous mugs of ambiguous Czech beer. Mmmm. To be clear, these beers were stupid big. I was sitting with my elbow on the table and my head in my hand when they arrived. As the waitress slammed mine down next to me, my eyes were even with the foam spilling over the top. That kind of big.
It took all my energy to lift that mug of delicious, ambiguous Czech beer, with both hands mind you, and take possibly the most refreshing sip of liquid my tongue has ever had the pleasure of tasting. A plate full of roasted potatoes, stuffed chicken, and some crunchy asparagus later, we were deliriously full with Czech food and a little loopy from Czech beer. We planned to walk all the way back to Old Square for a festival where we could sit outside now that the sun was going down, eat sausage, and drink Pilsner Urquells. As my mother raised me properly, I knew such a walk after such a day would require me to use the bathroom first. And then the fun started.
I packed my wallet, phone, and camera in my bag, threw it across my body, and stood up from the table to make for the bathroom. Oh my God. No. Oh my GOD. Stay calm. I walked slowly with the tensest muscles as I could manage, tried to remain calm, and casually moved twenty feet to the ladies room. Oh, thank God. I made it. Whew. I opened the heavy wooden door and took two more steps to the stall. But when I turned to lock the stall door behind me, I could barely stand up straight anymore. Then I looked down, and said out loud, "Oh shit. No. No, no, no." I saw the shiny links of my purse across my body from shoulder to hip. Under that, a knotted belt. Under that, six buttons on my top half and four under my belt. And even if I conquered the purse, belt, and buttons triathlon, I still had to pull the romper off my arms and down my legs.
As I lifted my purse from my shoulder, it happened. I peed my pants. Twenty-one years old, sober, in the daytime, in a bathroom, standing next to a toilet. I peed my pants. Down my legs, on my shoes. I managed to...stop. And then strip and actually use the bathroom the way they're meant to be used. But the damage had been done. I was a human adult who peed her pants because she was too lazy to use the bathroom when she arrived at a restaurant after drinking six bottles of water. After cleaning off my legs and feet for ten minutes, I looked at my splotchy, wet shoes and romper. And then I said a prayer to the gods of the Dyson Airblade Hand Drier, ran to the bathroom door, locked it, and dried off my clothes.
I ran out of the bathroom, slinging my bag over my shoulder, yelled, "Ready? Good! Let's go," and darted out of Bar Bar, down the street, and around the corner vowing never to speak of this event ever. It was like a month later when it became funny and I told my two friends what had happened that fateful day in Bar Bar on a small side street in Prague. The day that I peed my pants.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
What's in the mail
I sometimes forget about mail made out of paper and delivered in trucks. When you're a 22-year-old, unemployed, recently soft-bodied faux-adult and you receive mail made out of paper, it's quite confusing. That mail is complicated further when it involves a small box and has your name on the front of it.
Let's go back, back, way back for a minute all the way to four years ago almost exactly: July something, 2008. I had just received a high school diploma. I was built like an overcooked string bean. I had long, flowing blonde hair. And I had recently returned from the torturous, virtually purposeless, annoyingly awkward weekend that is the cruel hell of (dun, dun, dun) college orientation. Since direct human contact was already decidedly out of fashion and Mark Zuckerberg had already put the college experience online, someannoying overly ambitious members of our future college community made like 57 facebook groups so we could all creepily get to know each other without ever directly communicating. We all looked around and tried to gauge how attractive people were, make declaration like "I will never talk to X" or "I want to date Y," and take inventory of profile pictures which were without fail one of the following: grad pictures/prom pictures (= attractive), keg-stands (= cool), or duck-faced self-taken photos (this category definitely included the nameless person featured in the rest of this story). Then people would write on all 57 groups: "Blaa can't wait to get wasted, bros!" and "Yea were gunna rage every nite!!!!!" or "Is there vegan food?" Real high highfalutin conversation. Some giant idiot person, who remains a mystery to me to this day, decided to take the 500+ class list and match everyone up with a partner. Everyone was then supposed to make a mixed CD, yes, a MIXED CD, and MAIL those MIXED CDs to each other for a purpose as mysterious as the the identity of this idea's creator. Can't I just I.M. them the link to my favorite band's MySpace? (If this was now, we could all just tag each other in Spotify. Ugh, I do not miss the 2000's. Am I right?) Let me rephrase, can't I just not participate in this for one single second?
As can be inferred from the tone of this story, I thought this was an idea I was not interested in pursuing. Although, if I did do it, one of three things would have happened:
1. I would have made a CD of '90s TV theme songs and mailed that and looked funny.
2. I would have sent a blank CD and looked like a dick.
3. I would have pretended to be really into indie bands and underground music and lookedlike I was trying too hard cool.
Instead, I turned my nose up to the internet and did not participate. I can't actually find anyone who did; so thegiant idiot person who made this all up probably (read: hopefully) feels like a giant idiot.
So years go by, friends come and go, I move to Ireland for awhile, I come back. I create a club about being healthy and empowered. The club partly becomes a place to discuss how bad Katy Perry actually is for American youth because why-oh-why is there so much whipped cream involved and fembot boobs? Did I miss something? Should I be buying bras that shoot stuff at people? If so, does Target sell them? If I utilize whipped cream more often in my life will I become better at life? Didn't she start off as a Christian rock artist? With her money and fame shouldn't she have been able to hire someone to spell check the names of her songs? "Ur" and "n" for example. You annoy me, Kathryn Hudson (yea that's right I know her real name), because I sometimes like your newer songs, but would never admit it. Never, I say. I can't even begin to discuss the fembot-boobs moving to the biggest, most intense screen possible: IMAX 3D, a place which should be reserved for documentaries about oceans, rereleases of Titanic and hopefully a day-long Toy Story Trilogy IMAX 3D Experience someday, and movies based on book series (But not Twilight, never Twilight. Twilight is worse than Katy Perry somehow. Maybe glistening and staring deeply into people's eyes are worse punishments than fembot-boobs, dumb lyrics, and whipped cream. I don't know though.) I digress.
It's the first few weeks of senior year and we're all trying to live up to the "let's get wasted" plans of the original facebook orientation groups from 3 years earlier. But it's terribly difficult work because most of us are nerdy and none of us are good at being hungover. It's a Friday night and 10 of us are in a friend's room doing alcohol. It was one of those nights that nothing really happens but you're sore the next day from laughing. And because of the hangover. Mostly the laughing thing though. For instance, one friend, we'll call her Ms. Mafia, put a birthday balloon under her shirt and demanded we take a picture of her pregnant and drinking a beer. Healthy, empowered woman. She's going to actually be president one day. "But why birthday balloons?" you might be asking. "But why male models?" I might respond. Birthday balloons because it was someone's birthday; we'll call her Gagey.
Birthday Gagey later in the night was put to sleep before we even got to the bar. Happy 21st birthday at a suburban liberal farts college, Birthday Gagey! However, at this point in the night, Birthday Gagey was rearing and ready to go. She was sitting at her desk with her tiara on and a bottle of something in hand pouring a few shots for everyone, when suddenly she swung around and started screaming at innocent Me, "Ya know what, you can leave! YOU NEVER MADE ME A CD AT ORIENTATION, ERIN!" To which I could respond only by actually spitting my drink across the room like in movies and falling to the floor laughing, where I remained rolling around for a few minutes unsure if I'd ever recover. After the initial screaming died down, we all had a nice long talk about how no one participated in the stupid CD swap on facebook as it was not only asking us to do something that is now a relic of the '90s and early '00s, but it was just embarrassing for thegiant idiot person who created it. If I remember correctly, which I absolutely do not, Birthday Gagey informed us that she HAD in fact made me a CD that fateful summer but never sent it because she didn't want to send one and never get one back. I'd like to add a fourth option to the list above: Make CD, never send it due to lack of confidence. Bring it up years later. Look like a professional saboteur.
Last week, a box arrived with my name on it. Inside: Katy Perry's 2008 album, One of the Boys. With it: a handwritten note, copied below. Some information has been removed and replaced.
Dear 2008 Erin,
Hey it's me--2008 [Birthday Gagey]! Wow I can't believe we're going to college! I wonder what it'll be like. I can't wait to talk to all the people I've gotten friend requests from--I just have a feeling I'll have actual conversations with all of them and none of them will transfer.
Have you been talking to anyone on AIM? IM me when you're free--[ilovebirthdays10]! I've talked to [a random moron] a little bit, it turns out he has cousins in my town. I know what you're thinking...FATE! I mean at orientation and on tours and that time [our liberal farts college's] admissions rep came to my high school they told me that 75% of students marry someone from [the liberal farts college]! Look at me getting ahead of myself. I've only had one kiss before.
Anyways, here is your CD! This CD was released June 17, 2008, and I think you are going to LOVE IT.
Can't wait to see you around campus! I'm living in [the freshman dorm ~97mi from main campus where the people who live there only ever see each other and rarely know where the main cafeteria is even located. It used to be a seminary and is the worst/weirdest place.], even though it's far away I think I'll still see plenty of people around campus.
TTYL,
2008 [Birthday Gagey]
PS--Do you drink? I've been drunk like 2 times before but when I visited my sister at college it seemed like something everyone does. I'm still not sure about it though
Let's go back, back, way back for a minute all the way to four years ago almost exactly: July something, 2008. I had just received a high school diploma. I was built like an overcooked string bean. I had long, flowing blonde hair. And I had recently returned from the torturous, virtually purposeless, annoyingly awkward weekend that is the cruel hell of (dun, dun, dun) college orientation. Since direct human contact was already decidedly out of fashion and Mark Zuckerberg had already put the college experience online, some
As can be inferred from the tone of this story, I thought this was an idea I was not interested in pursuing. Although, if I did do it, one of three things would have happened:
1. I would have made a CD of '90s TV theme songs and mailed that and looked funny.
2. I would have sent a blank CD and looked like a dick.
3. I would have pretended to be really into indie bands and underground music and looked
Instead, I turned my nose up to the internet and did not participate. I can't actually find anyone who did; so the
So years go by, friends come and go, I move to Ireland for awhile, I come back. I create a club about being healthy and empowered. The club partly becomes a place to discuss how bad Katy Perry actually is for American youth because why-oh-why is there so much whipped cream involved and fembot boobs? Did I miss something? Should I be buying bras that shoot stuff at people? If so, does Target sell them? If I utilize whipped cream more often in my life will I become better at life? Didn't she start off as a Christian rock artist? With her money and fame shouldn't she have been able to hire someone to spell check the names of her songs? "Ur" and "n" for example. You annoy me, Kathryn Hudson (yea that's right I know her real name), because I sometimes like your newer songs, but would never admit it. Never, I say. I can't even begin to discuss the fembot-boobs moving to the biggest, most intense screen possible: IMAX 3D, a place which should be reserved for documentaries about oceans, rereleases of Titanic and hopefully a day-long Toy Story Trilogy IMAX 3D Experience someday, and movies based on book series (But not Twilight, never Twilight. Twilight is worse than Katy Perry somehow. Maybe glistening and staring deeply into people's eyes are worse punishments than fembot-boobs, dumb lyrics, and whipped cream. I don't know though.) I digress.
It's the first few weeks of senior year and we're all trying to live up to the "let's get wasted" plans of the original facebook orientation groups from 3 years earlier. But it's terribly difficult work because most of us are nerdy and none of us are good at being hungover. It's a Friday night and 10 of us are in a friend's room doing alcohol. It was one of those nights that nothing really happens but you're sore the next day from laughing. And because of the hangover. Mostly the laughing thing though. For instance, one friend, we'll call her Ms. Mafia, put a birthday balloon under her shirt and demanded we take a picture of her pregnant and drinking a beer. Healthy, empowered woman. She's going to actually be president one day. "But why birthday balloons?" you might be asking. "But why male models?" I might respond. Birthday balloons because it was someone's birthday; we'll call her Gagey.
Birthday Gagey later in the night was put to sleep before we even got to the bar. Happy 21st birthday at a suburban liberal farts college, Birthday Gagey! However, at this point in the night, Birthday Gagey was rearing and ready to go. She was sitting at her desk with her tiara on and a bottle of something in hand pouring a few shots for everyone, when suddenly she swung around and started screaming at innocent Me, "Ya know what, you can leave! YOU NEVER MADE ME A CD AT ORIENTATION, ERIN!" To which I could respond only by actually spitting my drink across the room like in movies and falling to the floor laughing, where I remained rolling around for a few minutes unsure if I'd ever recover. After the initial screaming died down, we all had a nice long talk about how no one participated in the stupid CD swap on facebook as it was not only asking us to do something that is now a relic of the '90s and early '00s, but it was just embarrassing for the
Last week, a box arrived with my name on it. Inside: Katy Perry's 2008 album, One of the Boys. With it: a handwritten note, copied below. Some information has been removed and replaced.
Dear 2008 Erin,
Hey it's me--2008 [Birthday Gagey]! Wow I can't believe we're going to college! I wonder what it'll be like. I can't wait to talk to all the people I've gotten friend requests from--I just have a feeling I'll have actual conversations with all of them and none of them will transfer.
Have you been talking to anyone on AIM? IM me when you're free--[ilovebirthdays10]! I've talked to [a random moron] a little bit, it turns out he has cousins in my town. I know what you're thinking...FATE! I mean at orientation and on tours and that time [our liberal farts college's] admissions rep came to my high school they told me that 75% of students marry someone from [the liberal farts college]! Look at me getting ahead of myself. I've only had one kiss before.
Anyways, here is your CD! This CD was released June 17, 2008, and I think you are going to LOVE IT.
Can't wait to see you around campus! I'm living in [the freshman dorm ~97mi from main campus where the people who live there only ever see each other and rarely know where the main cafeteria is even located. It used to be a seminary and is the worst/weirdest place.], even though it's far away I think I'll still see plenty of people around campus.
TTYL,
2008 [Birthday Gagey]
PS--Do you drink? I've been drunk like 2 times before but when I visited my sister at college it seemed like something everyone does. I'm still not sure about it though
Friday, June 29, 2012
Casting Fire
Do you get it? Do you? I kind of like Hunger Games and related topics. Now that the rumor mill has almost literally made everyone catch on fire with excitement and whatnot, it's high time I chimed in and told everyone they're wrong. Like the days of being an English TA (back, back, way back in college), I will assert my English Lit college degree and declare authority over this issue. Let's face it though, I have almost (read: absolutely) no authority over anything with my B.A. in English. In any case, here's who should be in the next installment of Collins' books-turned-movies. Feast your eyes and behold the answers to all your qualms.
1. Recast Peeta. Sorry J Hutch fans, sorry I'm not at all even slightly sorry. That person is so annoying and short and when I saw him at the MTV movie awards I wanted to kick him in his face, which wouldn't be that difficult because he is so annoying and short as previously mentioned. They should have gone with trouty-mouth-Glee-sensation Chord Overstreet. He's extra fitting because his name is as weird as Peeta's. He's bigger and more baker-like. Here's a photo of his big, baker-like chest.
2. Peace out Gale. That's right, recast Gale. I said it. I'll say it again. Recast Gale! Miley's boo is too enormous, and broad, and full-lipped. Galey Gale is supposed to be lean, and mysterious, and Seamy. Miley's boo also has to go because I have bigger plans for his brother, and it would be weird if people from District 12 and District 4 were siblings.... You know who's Seamy? I will tell you who is Seamy. Andrew Garfield is Seamy. The Seamiest. Far too old to actually be Gale, yes. But he has the Seamy face of a much younger adolescent boy. Here's Garfield looking brooding and mysterious. Oh, so Seamy.
3. Johanna Mason. As far as I'm concerned, Johanna is the star of my Hunger Games heart. She cray. The interweb's rumor mill had been saying Mia WazaAliceinWonderCrapkowski was in the running to be my Johanna. If that had happened, I would have to skip the movie and wait until it came out on DVD/BluRay. Then, I'd host the DVD/BluRay equivalent of a book burning party. She is known as "The Worst Actress Ever" by the voices in my head. Now I think they're going with this unknown model person. That's fine. Here's the real deal though: Rashida Jones (when you eliminate Leslie Knope telling Ann how sweet and beautiful she is, Rashida could be an awesome Johanna), Natalie Portman (proven ability to rock the pants off of a shaved head and to be quietly terrifying ala Black Swan), Yaya DaCosta (Boom, mind blown. She can forget all of Tyra's lessons about smiling with her eyes finally.)!!
4. Finnick Odair. Oh, Finnick. [Swoon]. What a wonderful character. [Swoon]. The best character. [SWOON]. The character. [Swoony Swoon]. Let's NOT ruin him and make me throw up by casting Robert Pattinson: known creepy, glistening vampire. Finnick glistens ironically. Robert is the worst. Collins crafted him so wonderfully into an unbelievably beautiful and complex character; plus he's a hot piece of 4 if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Finnick needs to be black in my opinion because that's how I pictured him and I'm always right. I heard (around the interweb rumor mill, of course) that Jesse Williams is being considered. [Swoooooooooooon]. I would be oh so happy if that happened. I say, YES! I say a lot of other things too though: Chris Hemsworth, Chris Evans, Henry Cavill, Armie Hammer, Jesse Metcalfe, aaaaaand Richard Madden. Let me put this into pop-culture-laymen's-terms for you: Thor, Captain America, Duke of Suffolk, Winklevi, John Tucker, Robb Stark. WHOA! Here's some incredibly objectifying photos of them with their shirts off like how we meet Finnick in the book.
Those are some Bad Ass hunky dudes. They're all good actors too. I couldn't find a satisfactorily obnoxious/shirtless photo of Richard Madden, mostly because Robb Stark is so proper, and perfect, and a gentleman, and so apparently is Richard Madden. So instead here's a picture of him and Jon Snow: the loves of my life. This is them brooding and being best friends/bastard-bros on a red carpet somewhere.
5. Beetee. Wipe the drool off your faces. Finnick time is over. We need to move on from Finnick! Get your head back in the game. Beetee! A friend's tumblr (which is dedicated to Johanna <3) suggested Jon Stewart play Beetee. Lol, I like that and you should too. I also think about Ewan McGregor, Andy Serkis, and drumroll, Ben Linus of LOST fame. I think it should be Ben Linus; he can already wear the shit out of his round glasses. If it's McGregor I would require his contract to stipulate that he rock the Obi-Wan hair cut (rat-tail included) during the production of the film.
6. Wiress. Toni Collette. Bye.
7. The Morphlings. Oh, sweet Morphings. You jaundicey yet loveable drug bags, you. Helena Bonham Carter and Edward Norton. A, because they are the weirdo-est actors. B. I am now picturing them painting each other and acting strange and mumbling. And they're really good at it in my head. And C, because Fight Club is still a great movie.
There are more characters, but these are the ones that would break my Hunger Games heart if they were cast really badly. Don't you ruin this for me Hollywood. Don't you do that to me! However, I owe you a thank you, Hollywood. Thank you for Jennifer Lawrence. What a Katniss.
Plz h!re m3,
Erin
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Luv L3tterz
You know how Spotify has a "Top Lists" app and you can see the top however many trending songs in America (or other countries like Sweden ((which when you listen to that top list, it's what I assume it feels like to be on acid)))? Well here are a bunch of lines from those top 10 songs (America's top songs, that is. IDK WTF is happening in the Swedish songs) smushed together into the ultimate love letter I hope to receive some day. Or, if I was a straight man, I'd send this little ditty to my main squeeze. Actually this just became the top 11 because number 11 is a Kanye West song, so fingers crossed it has some lyrics as good as his tweets! The following is literally the key to my heart. It can also be read as a sad, sad, sad commentary on our culture's language of courting women. Either way, either way is fine.
My Dearest Lamborghini Mercy,
Hey girl let me talk to you. I'm at a payphone trying to call home, say hello to falsetto in three two SWAG! I'm Rick James, hoe. Give me a second I need to get my story straight: Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad. I don't even need your love, and all those fairy tales are full of shit. . I can take you to places you ain't never been before; I'll be you Buzz Lightyear fly across the globe. If I took you home it would be a home run: chillin' by the fire while we eatin' fondue! Let's set the world on fiiiiii-eeee-yaaaah!! Girlfriend, girlfriend, you could be my girlfriend, so here's my number, call me maybe!
You're insecure, and I'm glad you came. If I was your boyfriend, I'd never let you go. Baby you light up my world like nobody else, we can burn brighter than the sun. The sun goes down, the stars come out, and everyone else in the room can see it: I would really like to blow swag, swag, swag on you. I'm running with the wolves and I'm on the prowl. We can burn brighter than the sun and my universe will never be the same, I'm glad you came. Your chick, she's so thirsty. Now I'll take you by the hand, hand you another drink, drink it if you can. I can be a gentleman, anything you want. Some nights I stay up cashing in my bad luck, cuz white girl politickin' that's that Sarah Palin! My universe will never be the same. It's a force field. If I was your boyfriend I'd never let you go so call me maybe, Lamborghini Mercy.
Hugs and Kisses,
Buzz
My Dearest Lamborghini Mercy,
Hey girl let me talk to you. I'm at a payphone trying to call home, say hello to falsetto in three two SWAG! I'm Rick James, hoe. Give me a second I need to get my story straight: Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad. I don't even need your love, and all those fairy tales are full of shit. . I can take you to places you ain't never been before; I'll be you Buzz Lightyear fly across the globe. If I took you home it would be a home run: chillin' by the fire while we eatin' fondue! Let's set the world on fiiiiii-eeee-yaaaah!! Girlfriend, girlfriend, you could be my girlfriend, so here's my number, call me maybe!
You're insecure, and I'm glad you came. If I was your boyfriend, I'd never let you go. Baby you light up my world like nobody else, we can burn brighter than the sun. The sun goes down, the stars come out, and everyone else in the room can see it: I would really like to blow swag, swag, swag on you. I'm running with the wolves and I'm on the prowl. We can burn brighter than the sun and my universe will never be the same, I'm glad you came. Your chick, she's so thirsty. Now I'll take you by the hand, hand you another drink, drink it if you can. I can be a gentleman, anything you want. Some nights I stay up cashing in my bad luck, cuz white girl politickin' that's that Sarah Palin! My universe will never be the same. It's a force field. If I was your boyfriend I'd never let you go so call me maybe, Lamborghini Mercy.
Hugs and Kisses,
Buzz
Monday, June 25, 2012
Freakin' Brave
Pixar's new Brave movie was kind of the worst. Okay not the worst. It wasn't Lilo & Stitch, which was the only time I've ever had to pay to take a nap in my life. But Brave didn't have that much to do with, you know, being...brave. I didn't have a picture in my mind of what I thought the plot would be but it was still somehow disappointing.
First, though, let's talk about what I did like. Give me a Disney protagonist with fire engine red hair and corkscrew curls and I'm a happy camper. OR SO I THOUGHT (dun, dun, dun!). I thought that her NAME was going to be Brave, but her name was like Murder or something. I couldn't really understand a lot of the words in the characters' sort of ambiguous, sort of Scottish, sort of Welsh, sort of Northern Irish accents. I thought the Queen's name was Helena for 95% of the film and then I realized it was Eleanor, fair enough mistake. But I thought the main character's name was MURDER. Okay, I just learned right now via IMDB mobile that her name is, in fact, Merida and that the movie is supposed to be in Scotland. Whatever, shut up. Walt [Disney], if your frozen head is reading this blog right now can you call up Pixar with your eyes or telepathy or something and tell them to do a better job next time they write a movie? That'd be swell.
Disney and Pixar rarely, and I mean RARELY as in almost never, make movies where the protagonist is female. And so when I saw the ads for Brave, I was like, "Oh, goodness me! A movie about a girl with wild hair who doesn't want an arranged marriage and can wield a bow and arrow. Finally!" And then I re-read the Hunger Games, and I was like, "AO*EY%(#PH!!! An animated and less depressing Katniss-Everdeen-Girl-(whose hair is)-On-Fire. Aka my dream in life." Right now, again via the IMDB magical-app, I found out the woman who does the voice for Murder was ROWENA RAVENCLAW in HPatDHp2 and Margaret in Boardwalk Empire and is Dolly in the upcoming Anna Karenina. Fine, I like Murder a little bit more now.
But not really because Murder kind of sucked. You think she's going to fight in the games for the hand of the princess (for her own hand) (as in literally taking control of her destiny) (which would have been COOL). But then she follows these little wisps that supposedly lead you to your destiny, and meets a witch who turns her mother into a bear. (?????????????)...(??). I didn't really get that part. I got that she had to figure out that she was being selfish by treating her Queen-Mom like shit and only ever wanting to shoot her arrows. But I guess they couldn't really write a movie about a wild, independent, archery-loving, teen who wants to control her own destiny and then competes in some physical games with arrows. Mostly because of that Suzanne Collins lady. Why bears though? But why male models? In the beginning King-Dad gets his leg bit off by a bear (I won't explain further, SPOILER ALERT!), so the obvious confusion of seeing his wife as a bear would cause a lot of conflict. I guess. They could have done better though.
What I wanted was this red-haired wild-child to do was tell Queen-Mom that being a Queen wasn't about being submissive, or proper, or wearing corsets, or perfecting her manners, and to tell King-Dad that ruling wasn't all about physical battle. Q-M and K-D were seriously flawed characters (which isn't a bad thing! More to learn!): Q-M was obsessed with being perfect and K-D was obsessed with battle and vengeance. So shouldn't Murder's resolution have been to break tradition (which was her eventual resolution, but in a menial way) and say her ascendance to the throne should be supplemented with lessons on how to lead, speak publicly, unite the clans with diplomacy, etc. But instead Murder was like, "Let's let our young people decide who to marry and I'll be on better terms with my parents but still continue living the way I was living: Riding around alone with my BFF Angus-the-horse shootin' stuff." Ugh, the beginning of the film had such PROMISE of a civilized hunger games mixed with a real version of Billy Madison's decathlon.
It was cool that it was void of a love story. We could all all use a few more non-love story movies; but in a world where love stories sell tickets, Pixar didn't really do a good job replacing the love story plot. It was kind of about being good to your family and not turning them into bears, and it was kind of about her friendship with Angus-the-horse, but Disney and Pixar have done a better job in the past not doing the love story and replacing it with friendship or family love. Instead, Murder learns some secrets about the history of the ambiguously anglo-something people, deals with Queen-Mom-Bear being a bear (not to be confused with Manbearpig), and has to make sure King-Dad doesn't kill Man-Bear-Pig-Mom. All of which take more cunning than bravery, and more quick-thinking than courage. Plus Q-M and K-D's characters weren't really resolved. K-D pretty much stayed a fumbling, funny-guy and Q-M backed off Murder's Queen training regimen, which was nice because everyone made up in the end. But, eh whatever. I didn't cry like Toy Story 3 and Up, didn't laugh like A Bug's Life Monsters Inc, didn't rethink life like Wall-e, and I didn't smirk the whole time like Ratatoullie or The Incredibles.
Hey, at least Murder wasn't from the traditionally broken Disney home we've all come to know and love to be confused by. Speaking of broken homes, my most beloved Disney/Pixar broken home family is coming back to the biggest, most intense screen possible (IMAX 3D of course): NEMO. Oh, Finding Nemo, its been 9 long years since I saw you in a movie theater full of 6 year olds and their babysitters one day after my 8th grade soccer game. How I've missed you! I've carried you with me since I entered high school and the world realized I look like Dory, act like Dory, sometimes have the memory of Dory. Finding Nemo: the truly brave story. Shut it, Brave. I'm mad at you.
Please hire me,
Erin
First, though, let's talk about what I did like. Give me a Disney protagonist with fire engine red hair and corkscrew curls and I'm a happy camper. OR SO I THOUGHT (dun, dun, dun!). I thought that her NAME was going to be Brave, but her name was like Murder or something. I couldn't really understand a lot of the words in the characters' sort of ambiguous, sort of Scottish, sort of Welsh, sort of Northern Irish accents. I thought the Queen's name was Helena for 95% of the film and then I realized it was Eleanor, fair enough mistake. But I thought the main character's name was MURDER. Okay, I just learned right now via IMDB mobile that her name is, in fact, Merida and that the movie is supposed to be in Scotland. Whatever, shut up. Walt [Disney], if your frozen head is reading this blog right now can you call up Pixar with your eyes or telepathy or something and tell them to do a better job next time they write a movie? That'd be swell.
Disney and Pixar rarely, and I mean RARELY as in almost never, make movies where the protagonist is female. And so when I saw the ads for Brave, I was like, "Oh, goodness me! A movie about a girl with wild hair who doesn't want an arranged marriage and can wield a bow and arrow. Finally!" And then I re-read the Hunger Games, and I was like, "AO*EY%(#PH!!! An animated and less depressing Katniss-Everdeen-Girl-(whose hair is)-On-Fire. Aka my dream in life." Right now, again via the IMDB magical-app, I found out the woman who does the voice for Murder was ROWENA RAVENCLAW in HPatDHp2 and Margaret in Boardwalk Empire and is Dolly in the upcoming Anna Karenina. Fine, I like Murder a little bit more now.
But not really because Murder kind of sucked. You think she's going to fight in the games for the hand of the princess (for her own hand) (as in literally taking control of her destiny) (which would have been COOL). But then she follows these little wisps that supposedly lead you to your destiny, and meets a witch who turns her mother into a bear. (?????????????)...(??). I didn't really get that part. I got that she had to figure out that she was being selfish by treating her Queen-Mom like shit and only ever wanting to shoot her arrows. But I guess they couldn't really write a movie about a wild, independent, archery-loving, teen who wants to control her own destiny and then competes in some physical games with arrows. Mostly because of that Suzanne Collins lady. Why bears though? But why male models? In the beginning King-Dad gets his leg bit off by a bear (I won't explain further, SPOILER ALERT!), so the obvious confusion of seeing his wife as a bear would cause a lot of conflict. I guess. They could have done better though.
What I wanted was this red-haired wild-child to do was tell Queen-Mom that being a Queen wasn't about being submissive, or proper, or wearing corsets, or perfecting her manners, and to tell King-Dad that ruling wasn't all about physical battle. Q-M and K-D were seriously flawed characters (which isn't a bad thing! More to learn!): Q-M was obsessed with being perfect and K-D was obsessed with battle and vengeance. So shouldn't Murder's resolution have been to break tradition (which was her eventual resolution, but in a menial way) and say her ascendance to the throne should be supplemented with lessons on how to lead, speak publicly, unite the clans with diplomacy, etc. But instead Murder was like, "Let's let our young people decide who to marry and I'll be on better terms with my parents but still continue living the way I was living: Riding around alone with my BFF Angus-the-horse shootin' stuff." Ugh, the beginning of the film had such PROMISE of a civilized hunger games mixed with a real version of Billy Madison's decathlon.
It was cool that it was void of a love story. We could all all use a few more non-love story movies; but in a world where love stories sell tickets, Pixar didn't really do a good job replacing the love story plot. It was kind of about being good to your family and not turning them into bears, and it was kind of about her friendship with Angus-the-horse, but Disney and Pixar have done a better job in the past not doing the love story and replacing it with friendship or family love. Instead, Murder learns some secrets about the history of the ambiguously anglo-something people, deals with Queen-Mom-Bear being a bear (not to be confused with Manbearpig), and has to make sure King-Dad doesn't kill Man-Bear-Pig-Mom. All of which take more cunning than bravery, and more quick-thinking than courage. Plus Q-M and K-D's characters weren't really resolved. K-D pretty much stayed a fumbling, funny-guy and Q-M backed off Murder's Queen training regimen, which was nice because everyone made up in the end. But, eh whatever. I didn't cry like Toy Story 3 and Up, didn't laugh like A Bug's Life Monsters Inc, didn't rethink life like Wall-e, and I didn't smirk the whole time like Ratatoullie or The Incredibles.
Hey, at least Murder wasn't from the traditionally broken Disney home we've all come to know and love to be confused by. Speaking of broken homes, my most beloved Disney/Pixar broken home family is coming back to the biggest, most intense screen possible (IMAX 3D of course): NEMO. Oh, Finding Nemo, its been 9 long years since I saw you in a movie theater full of 6 year olds and their babysitters one day after my 8th grade soccer game. How I've missed you! I've carried you with me since I entered high school and the world realized I look like Dory, act like Dory, sometimes have the memory of Dory. Finding Nemo: the truly brave story. Shut it, Brave. I'm mad at you.
Please hire me,
Erin
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
The Unemployedest
22-year-old whiners are so unemployed because we've never even had a job before. We're so unemployed that we've (read: I've) thought seriously about putting a best friend's first name and mother's maiden name under references and claimed that I nannied her 3 children last summer. On account of I was unemployed last summer. I was so unemployed that my parents, who are the world's worst house keepers and literally have not renovated or updated or really cleaned a single room in our house in over 10 years, gave me $200 to repaint our basement family room. We still have not put photos back on the walls or books back on the shelves. We rule.
Mostly I blame my unemployment on Ireland, but I shouldn't because they're way more unemployed than me. However, I lived there for a year in drunken, literary bliss at Trinity in Dublin. More often than not, I was running out of class and into a pub or running around trying to go to every place James Joyce got drunkenly tossed out of in his prime. Often these quests overlapped. In any case, not everything is Dublin's fault. Actually nothing is Dublin's fault. I change my mind! I love the fact that I spent all my money there. ANYWAY, when you go to a liberal farts college in suburban Massachusetts but you live in the New York metropolitan area and you are in Ireland trying to coordinate summer plans, your liberal farts college's career services office is, how-you-say...well, put it this way if you measured helpfulness on a Kelvin scale, this place would be flirting dangerously close to Absolute Zero. When I asked them, "Hey, might you assist me in procuring employment for the summer?" they responded, and I shit-you-not, "Did you try Monster?" Then I threw my laptop out the window and it landed on an old lady in a walker and I set my apartment on fire and jumped off the roof like Bertha. (Read: I drank a bottle of wine and went out until dawn to take the sting off of stupid.)
And so I spent my last college summer painting my parents' basement various Easter egg colors, asking my dad for beer money, crying, and sleeping until 3PM. This summer, however, no longer wasting away physically and mentally, I am much more proactive now that I have a piece of paper in a leather book that says B.A., which I wish denoted Bad Assery or Being Awesome or Bat Assassin or Basement Artist, but really just means Bachelor of fArts. As a result, this year when I went to Absolute-Zero-Kelvin-Career-Suckfest, as I came to endearingly know it, they were like, "Wait, we only have jobs for Accounting majors who already live in the Boston area and want to get paid in lollypops and pennies." Ugh. "Well," said I, "If that doesn't describe ME, I don't know what does!" Then I ran away, flailing my arms and yelling.
Now, I apply to upwards of 30 jobs a day. Today marks the one month-iversary of graduation, which I have decided to celebrate by month like a middle school dating relationship. Hopefully, my month-iversaries are short-lived and I break up with unemployment faster than I broke up with all none of my middle school boyfriends. Applying to 30 jobs a day, while watching every available movie and TV show on Netflix and Direct TV etc., is causing the following bad things to happen to me:
1. I had a dream last night I was on my way to an interview, but I was in Dublin, and I was dressed like the programs in Tron: Legacy and kept taking out lightposts with my disk. Then I was dating someone wearing an Iron Man suit but the power kept running out so every time we flew somewhere we'd hurtle to the ground and die kind of.
2. I am deathly, horribly, agoraphobically terrified by the outdoors. Like right now, for example, it's the first day of summer and it's a million degrees and sunny and part of me wants to go sit on my deck and read a book, but the other 99% of me can no longer handle the sound of birds chirping in the trees on my property or hearing squirrels and bunnies in the brush or the sound of literally any insect. And sometimes a leaf will land near me and I'll squirm. One time a squirrel climbed on the deck and we stared at each other for like 8 and half minutes until it slowly backed away and down the steps while I simultaneously walked backwards into my kitchen door. The whole ordeal took almost 20 minutes and I got a sunburn as a result.
3. Occasionally, or most nights, I can't go out with my "friends" from home because I drank too many whiskey-ginger-ales with my mother by 8PM and we're already too deep into any of the pre-Avengers movies, Tron: Legacy, Bridesmaids, X-men: First Class (because it is played on every channel every hour), or Harry Potter 1-7.2 (because if you time it correctly you can watch all 8 movies back to back to back to back to back to back to back to back).
4. I have put on almost every combination and permutation of my wardrobe and decided in my head where I would wear each outfit if I ever obtained enough courage to go outdoors again, reclaimed the ability to operate a vehicle after 8PM, answered the phone call of a "friend" who wanted to hang out, or go to an interview.
5. I get ice cream with my dad every other day at 3:30PM. Like fuckin' clockwork.
6. Speaking of clockwork (A Clockwork ORANGE, am I right?!), even though I reach my job application quota of 30 everyday and I've watched an equal number of movies per job application capita (see now why I would get fired from the accounting jobs in Boston that pay in lollypops and pennies?), I have also read a million books. One million. I think the number of books I've read in my first month-iversary with unemployment is equal to the number of books I read in my 4 years as an English major.
6a. I have found a love for metaphors that are also math equations.
I have to go now because I have to buy a suit for an imaginary interview with the last of my funds and get ice cream with my father as it is now 3:30PM. With this purchase, my weight will be a larger number than the one in my checking account. Huzzah!
Please hire me,
Erin
Mostly I blame my unemployment on Ireland, but I shouldn't because they're way more unemployed than me. However, I lived there for a year in drunken, literary bliss at Trinity in Dublin. More often than not, I was running out of class and into a pub or running around trying to go to every place James Joyce got drunkenly tossed out of in his prime. Often these quests overlapped. In any case, not everything is Dublin's fault. Actually nothing is Dublin's fault. I change my mind! I love the fact that I spent all my money there. ANYWAY, when you go to a liberal farts college in suburban Massachusetts but you live in the New York metropolitan area and you are in Ireland trying to coordinate summer plans, your liberal farts college's career services office is, how-you-say...well, put it this way if you measured helpfulness on a Kelvin scale, this place would be flirting dangerously close to Absolute Zero. When I asked them, "Hey, might you assist me in procuring employment for the summer?" they responded, and I shit-you-not, "Did you try Monster?" Then I threw my laptop out the window and it landed on an old lady in a walker and I set my apartment on fire and jumped off the roof like Bertha. (Read: I drank a bottle of wine and went out until dawn to take the sting off of stupid.)
And so I spent my last college summer painting my parents' basement various Easter egg colors, asking my dad for beer money, crying, and sleeping until 3PM. This summer, however, no longer wasting away physically and mentally, I am much more proactive now that I have a piece of paper in a leather book that says B.A., which I wish denoted Bad Assery or Being Awesome or Bat Assassin or Basement Artist, but really just means Bachelor of fArts. As a result, this year when I went to Absolute-Zero-Kelvin-Career-Suckfest, as I came to endearingly know it, they were like, "Wait, we only have jobs for Accounting majors who already live in the Boston area and want to get paid in lollypops and pennies." Ugh. "Well," said I, "If that doesn't describe ME, I don't know what does!" Then I ran away, flailing my arms and yelling.
Now, I apply to upwards of 30 jobs a day. Today marks the one month-iversary of graduation, which I have decided to celebrate by month like a middle school dating relationship. Hopefully, my month-iversaries are short-lived and I break up with unemployment faster than I broke up with all none of my middle school boyfriends. Applying to 30 jobs a day, while watching every available movie and TV show on Netflix and Direct TV etc., is causing the following bad things to happen to me:
1. I had a dream last night I was on my way to an interview, but I was in Dublin, and I was dressed like the programs in Tron: Legacy and kept taking out lightposts with my disk. Then I was dating someone wearing an Iron Man suit but the power kept running out so every time we flew somewhere we'd hurtle to the ground and die kind of.
2. I am deathly, horribly, agoraphobically terrified by the outdoors. Like right now, for example, it's the first day of summer and it's a million degrees and sunny and part of me wants to go sit on my deck and read a book, but the other 99% of me can no longer handle the sound of birds chirping in the trees on my property or hearing squirrels and bunnies in the brush or the sound of literally any insect. And sometimes a leaf will land near me and I'll squirm. One time a squirrel climbed on the deck and we stared at each other for like 8 and half minutes until it slowly backed away and down the steps while I simultaneously walked backwards into my kitchen door. The whole ordeal took almost 20 minutes and I got a sunburn as a result.
3. Occasionally, or most nights, I can't go out with my "friends" from home because I drank too many whiskey-ginger-ales with my mother by 8PM and we're already too deep into any of the pre-Avengers movies, Tron: Legacy, Bridesmaids, X-men: First Class (because it is played on every channel every hour), or Harry Potter 1-7.2 (because if you time it correctly you can watch all 8 movies back to back to back to back to back to back to back to back).
4. I have put on almost every combination and permutation of my wardrobe and decided in my head where I would wear each outfit if I ever obtained enough courage to go outdoors again, reclaimed the ability to operate a vehicle after 8PM, answered the phone call of a "friend" who wanted to hang out, or go to an interview.
5. I get ice cream with my dad every other day at 3:30PM. Like fuckin' clockwork.
6. Speaking of clockwork (A Clockwork ORANGE, am I right?!), even though I reach my job application quota of 30 everyday and I've watched an equal number of movies per job application capita (see now why I would get fired from the accounting jobs in Boston that pay in lollypops and pennies?), I have also read a million books. One million. I think the number of books I've read in my first month-iversary with unemployment is equal to the number of books I read in my 4 years as an English major.
6a. I have found a love for metaphors that are also math equations.
I have to go now because I have to buy a suit for an imaginary interview with the last of my funds and get ice cream with my father as it is now 3:30PM. With this purchase, my weight will be a larger number than the one in my checking account. Huzzah!
Please hire me,
Erin
Friday, June 15, 2012
A Song of Beer and Fire
In a last desperate grasp for collegiate debauchery, many New-England-yuppie-schools' senior classes pack their SUV's full of PBR, Keystone, and mobile-upload-capable-superphones, and book it down to Cape Cod for a week. We rent houses on the beach with our cliques, pay down payments (or don't pay down payments) on various bars, charge a million dollars to get it, and spill cheap beer on each others' Rainbow flip flops. It's a chance to tell the people you've actively never talked to before how cool you always thought they were and a chance to frequent a watering hole that isn't one of the two bars near your suburban-New-England-yuppie-school campus.
My chosen cohort of idiots rented a bus with some other people we knew so that every night we'd get picked up and dropped off by what became known as "The Magic School Bus." The peak of responsibility, no one was down with volunteering as the designated driver and no was down for drunk driving. Go, us. In any case, every group on the bus was a host of one of the bars each night. To be clear, our cohort of idiots were mere acquaintences with the other people on this bus. We liked them and they liked us, but they were all BFF for four years with each other and we were like a ragtag team of weirdos who hopped on to make the individual payments smaller. No offense, us.
Anyway, the group who was hosting would get picked up first (at, like, 8:30) to go to their bar and make sure all was ready. When the bus arrived for everyone else between 9:30-10, our house would start losing their shit. It was always a really special 5 minute period of time that occurred every evening and which I shall cherish until my last breath. I think what made it so precious was that the pitch of the shrieks were so high that I began confusing hangovers for sound-induced migraines. "THE BUS IS HERE!" "I HAVE TO PEE!" "THE BUS IS HERE!" "GET SOME ROADIES!!!" "Where are my shoes?" "Also, the bus is here." "Erin, shut UP!" It was a marathon of skinny, clean-shaven legs, a hundred sets of flailing arms, noises that only 22 year old women can make, and the two men in the group just following me around and yelling their best insult material at my face. Frequent collisions, constant screaming, and unending running (mostly in circles) ensued, and then the 12 of us would aggressively hurtle out of one of the two exits of our home, shoving each other and stumbling across the front lawn while our heels pegged into the Earth. I'm not going to say we didn't fall down. We'd fly onto the bus screaming, out of breath, definitely missing at least one cohort member. The driver also made the mistake of telling us her name was Mrs. G, so we would more than likely be chanting her name at this point in the night.
In contrast, when we got to one of the other 4 houses the bus would stop at, people would meander lackadaisically from the house, really slowly, capture a few planned candid moments, snap some duck-mouthed selfies, careful not to mess up their hair or spill a roadie (which, in all cases other than ours, appeared to be smart cocktails that Don Draper would sip), forget something, go back inside, make a sandwich, 8 more bathroom trips, nap maybe. It would take roughly the same amount of time as our riotous fire-drill routine somehow. Time got confusing quickly.
It took valiant efforts and desperate determination to continue to consume alcohol after day 3. The real fun arrived on day 4, our turn to host the bar. We chose a really nice Irish pub that had three rooms, a free DJ, and a drink called "The Mind Eraser." Done, and done. (0mgZ #college!!!!!!) In the general dehydrated state the 12 of us seemed to perpetually live in, we decided we'd take it back a few steps that night and be mildly responsible as we'd be handling quite a bit of money, considering the $10 cover we were planning to collect at the door. We split up into pairs, drew numbers from a hat, and created 20 minute shifts that would cover two hours at the door. And after that we didn't really care. However, this meant that Mrs. G's Magic School Bus would be arriving at 8:15pm to come get us. Drinking like the bus is coming at 8:15 on day 4 should go on our resumes. I've literally never had to work harder in my whole entire life. Not at any of my one internships. Not at any part-time summer job. Not even when I tried to watch the Twilight movie freshman year. Not ever.
When we arrived, we were completely alone. I forgot to mention I ripped my pants before we got there and didn't change my clothes. Belt-loop, shmelt-shmoot. Three rooms including a giant dance floor and two bars is really big when you're part of a twelve person cohort of idiots occupying the space. Naturally we started dancing and I sang karaoke with no microphone to no song in particular. Something tells me there wasn't any music on yet. Then we started running around like the bus was at the house and our pants were on fire and we had to leave. But actually it because there was a faulty fire alarm going off. Next time you're shooting an action movie and you need a crowd to start acting like mayhem and pandemonium is actually surrounding them, get a bunch of 22 year old women a few drinks and set a fire alarm off. Academy Award? In the bag.
When the fire department showed up, our true colors came out. Some of us left them alone to fondle the circuit box at the back door (Not meant to sound dirty, but I'll take it.), while others attempted to give our two cents. One rambunctious team member, we'll him "Me" (...), told the firefights not worry because Me was related to a firefighter. I think Me's exact words were, "Fear not! If you need help, just ASK me! My dad is retired from the FDNY. So like, I got this." To which they replied, in the politest way possible, to please fuck off. Then came another passionate team member who hovered by the scene, we'll call her "Dobby." Dobby actually reached for the keys to the circuit box, tried to grab them out of the firefighter's hands, assert herself in front of them, and said something to the effect of, "Let me try. Did you try this key yet? I bet it's this key, guys." I'm under the impression she was also told to kindly fuck off.
Once that debacle was settled, people began arriving in search of a dance floor and Mind-Erasers. Our cohort leader, we'll call her "Legolas," ran around and convinced us all to stick close to our door-staffing partners because it was time to Get That Money. When Me's shift started, the 10 o'clock shift, Me and his partner...we'll call him "Mrs. Featherbottom"...Mrs. Featherbottom had a sweet ass plan where Mrs. Featherbottom would take the money or pre-paid tickets and I (I mean... Me) was to draw a simple X on people's hands, signifying that we Got That Money. However, Me became a bit, shall we say, rambunctious? excited? artistic? douchey? In any case, Me was drawing elaborate masterpieces on people's hands, arms, palms, necks, whatever. Mrs. Featherbottom told Me, quite impolitely and without the gentle finesse of the fire department I might add, to actually fuck off. So Me felt bad and went to the bar and got 2 beers for himself and for Mrs. Featherbottom to call it even. But then Me got distracted and forgot about the door and reported to the dance floor and blew everyone away with some truly disconcerting and confusing skinny white girl dance moves. Such a display of idiocy drew an audience including the dictator Legolas who shouted some things into the face of Me that are unrepeatable, scary, and will burn in Me's brain for a long time. I reported back to my post at the door and handed Mrs. Featherbottom a half-full (optimism) beer and gave my sincerest apologies. To which, Mrs. Featherbottom lit up and yelled, "Shift's over, bitches. Let's party."
Please hire me,
Erin
My chosen cohort of idiots rented a bus with some other people we knew so that every night we'd get picked up and dropped off by what became known as "The Magic School Bus." The peak of responsibility, no one was down with volunteering as the designated driver and no was down for drunk driving. Go, us. In any case, every group on the bus was a host of one of the bars each night. To be clear, our cohort of idiots were mere acquaintences with the other people on this bus. We liked them and they liked us, but they were all BFF for four years with each other and we were like a ragtag team of weirdos who hopped on to make the individual payments smaller. No offense, us.
Anyway, the group who was hosting would get picked up first (at, like, 8:30) to go to their bar and make sure all was ready. When the bus arrived for everyone else between 9:30-10, our house would start losing their shit. It was always a really special 5 minute period of time that occurred every evening and which I shall cherish until my last breath. I think what made it so precious was that the pitch of the shrieks were so high that I began confusing hangovers for sound-induced migraines. "THE BUS IS HERE!" "I HAVE TO PEE!" "THE BUS IS HERE!" "GET SOME ROADIES!!!" "Where are my shoes?" "Also, the bus is here." "Erin, shut UP!" It was a marathon of skinny, clean-shaven legs, a hundred sets of flailing arms, noises that only 22 year old women can make, and the two men in the group just following me around and yelling their best insult material at my face. Frequent collisions, constant screaming, and unending running (mostly in circles) ensued, and then the 12 of us would aggressively hurtle out of one of the two exits of our home, shoving each other and stumbling across the front lawn while our heels pegged into the Earth. I'm not going to say we didn't fall down. We'd fly onto the bus screaming, out of breath, definitely missing at least one cohort member. The driver also made the mistake of telling us her name was Mrs. G, so we would more than likely be chanting her name at this point in the night.
In contrast, when we got to one of the other 4 houses the bus would stop at, people would meander lackadaisically from the house, really slowly, capture a few planned candid moments, snap some duck-mouthed selfies, careful not to mess up their hair or spill a roadie (which, in all cases other than ours, appeared to be smart cocktails that Don Draper would sip), forget something, go back inside, make a sandwich, 8 more bathroom trips, nap maybe. It would take roughly the same amount of time as our riotous fire-drill routine somehow. Time got confusing quickly.
It took valiant efforts and desperate determination to continue to consume alcohol after day 3. The real fun arrived on day 4, our turn to host the bar. We chose a really nice Irish pub that had three rooms, a free DJ, and a drink called "The Mind Eraser." Done, and done. (0mgZ #college!!!!!!) In the general dehydrated state the 12 of us seemed to perpetually live in, we decided we'd take it back a few steps that night and be mildly responsible as we'd be handling quite a bit of money, considering the $10 cover we were planning to collect at the door. We split up into pairs, drew numbers from a hat, and created 20 minute shifts that would cover two hours at the door. And after that we didn't really care. However, this meant that Mrs. G's Magic School Bus would be arriving at 8:15pm to come get us. Drinking like the bus is coming at 8:15 on day 4 should go on our resumes. I've literally never had to work harder in my whole entire life. Not at any of my one internships. Not at any part-time summer job. Not even when I tried to watch the Twilight movie freshman year. Not ever.
When we arrived, we were completely alone. I forgot to mention I ripped my pants before we got there and didn't change my clothes. Belt-loop, shmelt-shmoot. Three rooms including a giant dance floor and two bars is really big when you're part of a twelve person cohort of idiots occupying the space. Naturally we started dancing and I sang karaoke with no microphone to no song in particular. Something tells me there wasn't any music on yet. Then we started running around like the bus was at the house and our pants were on fire and we had to leave. But actually it because there was a faulty fire alarm going off. Next time you're shooting an action movie and you need a crowd to start acting like mayhem and pandemonium is actually surrounding them, get a bunch of 22 year old women a few drinks and set a fire alarm off. Academy Award? In the bag.
When the fire department showed up, our true colors came out. Some of us left them alone to fondle the circuit box at the back door (Not meant to sound dirty, but I'll take it.), while others attempted to give our two cents. One rambunctious team member, we'll him "Me" (...), told the firefights not worry because Me was related to a firefighter. I think Me's exact words were, "Fear not! If you need help, just ASK me! My dad is retired from the FDNY. So like, I got this." To which they replied, in the politest way possible, to please fuck off. Then came another passionate team member who hovered by the scene, we'll call her "Dobby." Dobby actually reached for the keys to the circuit box, tried to grab them out of the firefighter's hands, assert herself in front of them, and said something to the effect of, "Let me try. Did you try this key yet? I bet it's this key, guys." I'm under the impression she was also told to kindly fuck off.
Once that debacle was settled, people began arriving in search of a dance floor and Mind-Erasers. Our cohort leader, we'll call her "Legolas," ran around and convinced us all to stick close to our door-staffing partners because it was time to Get That Money. When Me's shift started, the 10 o'clock shift, Me and his partner...we'll call him "Mrs. Featherbottom"...Mrs. Featherbottom had a sweet ass plan where Mrs. Featherbottom would take the money or pre-paid tickets and I (I mean... Me) was to draw a simple X on people's hands, signifying that we Got That Money. However, Me became a bit, shall we say, rambunctious? excited? artistic? douchey? In any case, Me was drawing elaborate masterpieces on people's hands, arms, palms, necks, whatever. Mrs. Featherbottom told Me, quite impolitely and without the gentle finesse of the fire department I might add, to actually fuck off. So Me felt bad and went to the bar and got 2 beers for himself and for Mrs. Featherbottom to call it even. But then Me got distracted and forgot about the door and reported to the dance floor and blew everyone away with some truly disconcerting and confusing skinny white girl dance moves. Such a display of idiocy drew an audience including the dictator Legolas who shouted some things into the face of Me that are unrepeatable, scary, and will burn in Me's brain for a long time. I reported back to my post at the door and handed Mrs. Featherbottom a half-full (optimism) beer and gave my sincerest apologies. To which, Mrs. Featherbottom lit up and yelled, "Shift's over, bitches. Let's party."
Please hire me,
Erin
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