Minor League

I've been told that a lot of professional athletes remember their first game of t-ball or go on the gymnastics mats; a lot of actors remember their first audition and a lot of alcoholics remember their first drink. 

Likewise, I can pinpoint the exact moment I realized college and beyond was going to be one big bar story for me. I'd like you to go back in time with me to a period when Lil John was household entity and the Jonas Brothers hadn't yet gone through puberty: Summer, 2006. 

I had just graduated from high school and was at "Senior Week," a week of seaside debauchery generally funded by everyone's parents. If you haven't experienced senior week (because it truly is an experience), think spring break in Cancun in a shadier locale with more underaged drinking and infinitely more awkwardness. Needless to say, I've been to "Senior Week" four times, finally cutting myself off this year after realizing any relations with underaged seniors may have passed the realm of creepy and starting lingering in potentially illegal territory. 

Rewind to my only legitimate senior week: sometime between graduation and this week at the beach, I escaped from the overhang of a plethora of AP classes and bad hair, learned to drink and turned into a normal human being. Most of the week was spent avoiding boys who hadn't spoken to me during high school who suddenly wanted to sleep with me. It was like a late 90's teen movie with less snappy dialogue and a way grosser set.

The highlight had to one night when I was informed this guy Greg was interested in me. No Greg was going to be a senior in college. Now that I am nearly Greg's age, I can fully grasp the sketchiness of the situation; at the time, I was supremely flattered.

Nothing says romance to a naive 17 year old girl from Catholic school quite like beer pong and promises of 'just cuddling,' so one thing led to another and all of a sudden, I was sleeping over. Being unaware that 'just cuddling' was code for a minimum of heavy petting, I squirmed around, trying to get as far a possible from Greg in a twin size bed (apparently, an impossible feat). Far from sober, my squirming was hardly graceful and the next thing I knew, I was tangling in the long curtain with the rod falling on my head. 

Convinced I had a concussion and any additional time in that bed would result in unwanted contact with a penis, I locked myself in the bathroom. When I finally decided drunken Greg had hopefully passed out, I found that the super cheap condo rental was living up to its value - the door was stuck. Absolutely jammed in the door frame. 

Clearly, the logical alternative was to plan an escape. Out the bathroom window. As there was only a tiny window above the toilet, I'm still not sure how I managed it, but I'm sure it was full of grace and charm. 

By this point, it was 7 am and I commenced my walk home, a whopping 40 blocks (but everyone knows beach blocks aren't REAL city blocks; however, this was still no mean feat); my hair was in disarray from the night before, my makeup was smeared, I'm pretty sure I had a notable hickey and I was wearing a mini skirt and tube top. Lovely.

To add some adventure, school was still in session in this quiet, sea side town. While dressed like an Eastern European hooker, I had to wait to cross the street while approximately 20 parents dropped their kindergarten aged children off at the bus stop and watched them onto the bus. 

Upon making it home, I swore off drinking, men and tube tops forever. Oh, and the next week, Greg rejected my friend request on facebook. 

My swearing off lasted approximately a few days, the tale evolved into some kind of legend and I realized things were going to get really interesting....

ps: One of my many New Years Resolutions is to keep this updated.

Flesh Drive

The lost and found at the library is possibly one of my favorite things about my job. The collection is full of odds and ends and sometimes when it's slow, they make an appearance. There are 80's era sunglasses and plaid shirts galore. Sometimes, the more daring of my co-workers don these items and run around the workroom. Many of them are in mid-management positions. 

One of the largest collections in the lost and found are the flash drives, complements of our public computers. There are flash drives in all shapes and sizes and if they are there for over a month, we the staff are free to take them.

I had been eyeing one specific flash drive all summer. Bright blue and adorned with cartoon-ish goldfish, it was cute enough for me to cope with the level of nerdery which I feel comes with owning a flash drive. At the end of the day I scooped it up and took it home.

I plugged the flash drive into my computer, expecting to see the standard collection of word documents I would have to delete. But no. This was no ordinary flash drive. The folders had names such as "Trashy White Girls," "Black n Wet," "Grls from Craigslist," and "Triple Xxxx."

Lovely. 600 files of porn. And one folder entitled "me." Curiosity got the best of me and I called my mother over to witness the level of horror which was currently plugged into my computer. Upon opening the "Me"folder, there were several photographs, entitled "Me," one through approximately 66. I hesitated when clicking it, terrified I was going to see a very naked, very overweight middle aged man (our average clientele) show up on my screen. My mother covered my eyes with her hand. "It's okay," she assured me. "I've seen it before. Click it and I'll tell you if it's okay." Not having the heart to crush my mother with the fact that I had indeed seen a naked man before, I complied. 

While the man was not naked, he was one who came into the library. Daily. And who I would never be able to look in the eyes again. 

Further browsing resulted in a word file entitled "the Rules." Here is the file, word for misspelled word:

"I have read your note and I did enjoy my self but I sense that you need more. More direction and more HUMILIATION and training are needed. I can see that I will need more toys and training aides. I think we can have a LONG and wonderful relationship but there will have to be some rules and you will need to obey them at ALL times.
Rule No. One: I am in charge at all Times and you will follow my directions.
Rule No. Two: There must be a safety word that you will say if the Pain is to much.
Rule No. Three: Each session is over when I SAY it is over, about an hour or so.
Rule No. Four: You will ALWAYS write me a critic of my work and email it to me
Rule No. Five: At the beginning of each session you will give me an envelope which will express you gratitude for my services monetarily, paddles and toys cost and I’m sure you want to say thank you to your Master.
If you agree to these terms we can set the time for the next meeting………………..Ed"

Needless to say, the next time I help him will put every customer service seminar I've ever had to the ultimate test. Also, it took over an hour to delete all the files.

Walk of Shame.

Let's say, for the purposes of this post, you are a guy. You have just hooked up with a decent looking girl...you got some action, she got some cuddling, all parties are happy. The next morning, your friends come to your bedroom door, trying to awaken you for some new shenanigans. She wants to get changed, and they're not budging from the door. Trying to save some semblance of class, she decides to change in the shadow of your closet, far from the prying eyes of your friends.

After reading too many issues of Cosmopolitan, she thinks it'd be cute to get changed seductively, intending to kick your boxers she was wearing onto your bed after removing them. While attempting to perform this maneuver, she gets the boxers stuck around her legs, trips, and falls into your closet, wearing simply a bra and underwear. 

For the sake of my pride, let's just say this is totally a hypothetical story. However, I would really, really empathize with any girl it did happen to. Totally.

S.S. Minnow.

A wise, wise man once said the two happiest days in the life of a boat owner are the day he purchases a boat and the day he sells it. Clearly, he was referring to a sailboat. He should have expanded the saying to include the fact that the happiest day in a non-boat owners life is the day he or she declines a pleasure cruise on the aforementioned water craft.

I have an odd fascination with boats. I tease my friends about their lack of yachts upon which I can sun myself. I wear boat shoes. I own multiple belts from J. Crew, adorned with anchors. So whenever my uncle invited us to spend a day on the water on his boat, not only did I jump at the offer, but I bragged about it to my friends.

Now, I should have seen the warning signs long before the trip. Namely, the night before. Any evening when people start having beer chugging contests before they start eating dinner probably isnt going to end well. 

However, confident in my non-academic skills that I had developed in college, I quickly sprung out of bed the next morning, chugged a gatorade and was on my merry way to the dock. 

Things which I did not take into consideration: 

a. sailboats are hard work. They do not leave time for one to locate a breezy location, curl up, and pass out. 

b. I can barely walk and be a functioning human being on dry land, let alone on a boat. With ropes. Everywhere

c. It was going to be 100 degrees

d. The wind which made 100 degrees feel more like a balmy 92 degrees also made the water rough.

By these powers combined, the two or three hours we actually spent sailing were horrific. I was too prideful to let myself throw up, so instead, I would lurk away and nap for 20 minutes at a time in some forgotten about sail covers. That is, until I would be awoken by water coming over the edge (apparently this is standard procedure) or the sail's boom swooping down and almost hitting me in the head. It was the most adventurous nap I'd ever taken. Whenever I was awake, I'd consider  swimming to shore. Even drowning in the attempt would be a preferable outcome. 

We then decided to drop anchor for lunch and swimming in a shallow cove. Mind you, nature and I have a very distant relationship, in that we enjoy observing each other, from a distance. Even in the ocean, I don't like touching the bottom. Even when I can see my feet. However, the ungodly heat drove me into the water today. But I refused to touch the bottom. I spent the better part of an hour floating and awkwardly doggie paddling around everyone. 

That's when disaster struck. Sometime between lunch and frolicking around in the water, the tide went out. Leaving our boat more on the ground than in the water. So when we started the engine we went...no where. Desperate times called for desperate measures. A rope was thrown over the side and we followed suit. And proceeded to pull the boat. Off of the sandbar from hell. I touched the bottom. It was as disgusting as expected. I also managed to get stung by every jelly fish in approximately a five mile vicinity. You can't even tell though. It blends in well with my tomato colored sunburn I got. 

Needless to say, I will never buy a boat. Unless that boat is a yacht that comes with it's own staff. For now, I will limit my nautical enjoyment to my closet.

Nature vs. Nerdture

To say I work with a cast of characters would be the understatement of the year. I work at a library and needless to say, each day puts every episode of The Office to shame. Well, maybe not the UK version.

Anywho, one such coworker is the epitome of these characters: aviator glasses (not to be confused with the fratfully popular sunglass version, I think this pair changes color as he goes indoors), flood pants bordering on capris, and a debatable mullet.

In my youth (aka three years ago), several of my coworkers and I developed a borderline obsession with this man. How old was he? Do you think anyone had ever had the misfortune of kissing him? What does he do in his free time? This last question was our favorite point to ponder. We each had our own version. My tale of choice involved him going home to his mother's basement and staying up until 5 am, posting conspiracies on various forums. "The government is employing mind control through library books." "Aliens live in your belly button." Before going to sleep, he would search for vintage Pokemon cards on eBay and promptly crawl into a bed covered with pet hair of no less than 14 cats. Twelve of them would curl up with him.

Now that I am older and wiser, I can't help but realize that clearly this man has some sort of social anxiety. A combination of bad physical and emotional genes had given him the short end of the lifestyle stick. He was nice enough; creepy, but nice. I was a pretty awful person for my relentless teasing, as I was the proverbial ringleader.

Then my mind wandered to his hair: the semi mullet. Spiky on top, grazing his collar in the back. The embodiment of all that made me giggle behind his back. Were these naturally unfortunate cowlicks or did he actually pay somebody to do this to his head? Concluding that an entire head full of cowlicks is pretty much physically impossible,  I decided that to some degree, this was a choice.  

And I felt a little less bad.