anything anonymous

Hi, my name is Liz, and I'm an addict.

A Facebook addict, that is. And a gossip site addict. And an addict to just about anything that's counterproductive to life... aka 98% of the world wide web's offerings. I'm addicted to the internet.

12 hours ago, (yes, I've calculated it down to the hour...) I deleted my Facebook account. I can almost hear the gasps, the oh-the-horror's, and the WHAT?'s emitting across the Columbia Basin.

And all I can say is, I know.

I'm shaking like a crack fiend. Facebook has been an integral part of my 'social networking' for years. Hell, without Facebook, I'd probably have zero real-life friends, as I am less than reliable when it comes to answering my phone/returning calls... Facebook is the only reason I have sporadic activities and rendezvous' penciled in on my calendar, without it I'm just some loser that doesn't know what the hell's going on... especially with things concerning my friends.

I think I first noticed that I had a problem when I began thinking in Facebook status form. "Elizabeth Moss is practically DYING without fb :("

One of the most amusing parts of this whole Facebook thing, is that I've convinced myself that any of you care. You know, about my status updates. Or the fact that I posted pictures. Or what my favorite movies are, or my religious/political affiliation. Who am I, the Queen? Who gives a shit what I'm doing. No one, that's who.

But Facebook allows me to be the self-important jackass that I'm generally only comfortable being in front of my close friends... and since they account for only 5% of my friend list.... that would mean there are a lot of acquaintances that probably groan with every update, "Ugh, God, not her again."

What did we do before the days of social networking sites? Did we actually call people to chat? Just the thought of it makes me cringe. How did we get invited to parties? Paper invitations? How 1999. And don't even get me started on dating... how did we know whether or not someone's courtship was legitimate before they vowed their 'In A Relationship With...' status via minifeed announcement? Random sightings at the mall? Palpable affection? Ridiculous.

And, most importantly, how did one stalk their crushes, rivals and/or drunken acquaintances? Tailing them? Peering through a set of binoculars into their living room windows? How barbaric... and mildly thrilling.

Until Facebook came along, what did we do with all the time that we waste, er, I mean spend, on the computer? Frolic in the outdoors with three dimensional people? What an amusing thought.

Now, I realize that most of you don't have the same vices as I. You don't find yourself mindlessly navigating to Facebook during all hours of the night. You don't find yourself halfway through that one guy who sat behind you in English 351's wall-to-wall with his long lost best friend from preschool before realizing, "Shit, I'm supposed to be at work..."

But I do. I have a problem. And that is why I deactivated.

And none of you are going to see this. Because I have no way to tell you about it.

Hmm.

Didn't think this through, did I?

Dumbass.

clowns, and chickens and ferris wheels, oh my!!

I seem to have procured a vast pool of knowledge that consists solely of random and useless information, like the fact that Humphrey Bogart was born on Christmas day in 1899 or that the ancient Chinese believe that people with three cowlicks are destined to have terrible lives and die early. Everything I know is entirely worthless, unless I'm in a trivia tournament or something... but, still. I didn't fall off the turnip truck when I was born yesterday. Momma didn't raise no dummy.

Now with that said... for a so called "no dummy", I carry with me the weight of several irrational fears. And by several I mean enough to ensure a psychiatrist many a $350 session. I'm surprised I make it out the front door on most days, as I am usually crippled by my (crazy, largely unfounded, and innumerable) concerns.

I should mention that in addition to my ridiculous worries, I'm also uneasy about a number of rational things, like if that one depressing as hell Sarah McLachlan song plays at my funeral, or that polar bears will go extinct before I have the chance to capture one and raise him as my own...

I shudder at the thought.

But, anyway, to heal myself from further intellectual damming, and to save my future shrink the trouble, I've decided to say these fears aloud, not only for your amusement, but for my own benefit, and try to determine their root. Maybe when I read them back to myself, I'll see them for how truly ridiculous they are?

Or, I'll have written record of their absolute dreadfulness.

Deep breath, here we go...

Escalators. I don't know what it is about them, but they scare the shit out of me. Yes, I know I won't get sucked into the mechanism at the end, and yes, I know that the steps won't suddenly collapse, sucking me, once again, into the 'mechanism'... But seriously. It totally could.

Cause: My parents. Damn them. Damn them for taking me to Columbia Center in my youth and forcing me upon the Bon Marche escalators, taunting me with, "make sure your laces are tied, don't wanna get them tangled in the top!" Why wouldn't I heed their warnings? They're my parents, and at the age of 7, I had yet to learn how to ignore their constant blithering.

Cotton sheets. Something about the fibrous weave really freaks me out. I can imagine being choked by the interlocking threads, the CSI coroner pulling a rogue string out of my throat, proclaiming that it was, in fact, death by bedding.

Cause: This one is trickier to pinpoint, but it could be because of that one time my mom tried to suffocate me with my cotton pillow. No, I'm just kidding. She never did that. Haha, it was more of a flannel fabric...

Seriously though, she'll probably be angry when/if she ever reads that...

Clowns. I'm hard-pressed to find this fear 'irrational', though people keep insisting that it is. They have obnoxiously bright, over-sized clothes and annoyingly large shoes, but that's just the tip of the iceberg. What about their identity masking make-up? Who are they trying to fool?! And their disgustingly blood red locks? Quelle horreur! Some people ask, "What's wrong with clowns?" while I ask, "What's RIGHT with clowns?" Nothing, I tell you! Nothing!

Cause: Well, it could be because of that one time my mom dropped a creepy clown figurine on my head while I was lying helplessly in my crib. That's right. I was a defenseless baby... or evidently by my mother's calculations, an indestructible bundle that needed to be squashed. Oh, also, it could be that one time she let me watch 'It', and if you know me at all, you'd know that I'm quite impressionable, so that was most definitely a mistake. I've got a wild imagination, and I'm a bit of a hypochondriac, if I could diagnose myself...

Or, or, it could be the fact that clowns are evil incarnate. And that my 'friends' like to dress up as them and chase me, and hide in my bed in order to further perpetuate my phobia.

Could be any one of those things.

The sound of mute. Now I know what you're thinking... the sound of mute? Yes. The sound of a television set on mute. It's a high pitched humming that I'm pretty sure I'll be unable to hear in a few years, but nevertheless. I can hear it now. And I'm certain in the notion that it's the work of some psychotic alien or really techy-kid trying to deafen me with its near-silent shriek.

Cause: Uh, probably that imagination, again. I should lay off the hallucinogens.

Ferris wheels. I'm not alone in this one. Who doesn't dread the day when you're sitting pretty atop the old wheel-o-fun, when it suddenly dislodges from its carny-kept cage, rolling over fellow carnival goers as you hang helplessly in the balance. It could happen. It probably has happened...

Cause: Well, what do you know, good ol' Mom's to blame for this one, again... There's a bit of a pattern emerging here, isn't there?

Yeah, she used to shove me onto the platform with my (totally willing, aka: delusional) cousin at the county fair, and then laugh at the pictures she took, all of which dynamically showcasing a look of sheer terror upon my face.

Also, I'm a bit weary of fair rides ever since the Benton Franklin Fair and Rodeo debacle of 2000, in which a ride broke while I was on it. I emerged unscathed, as it was not my particular 'wagon' that was damaged... but still, that had to leave an emotional scar, right? My friends got hurt, and I probably internalized their pain. I'm very empathetic, I swear.

Mind readers. Seriously? What if people really could read minds... what are you saying inside your head that you hope no one will ever hear? Exactly. Tons of things. Personally, I think millions of rude/insensitive/horrible/mildly amusing/strange/downright hilarious things that I purposefully hold back from the general public. It'd be like a modern day Pandora's box if my mind was let loose... Ugh.

Cause: Does this one need an explanation? If people could hear all the things that I'm thinking, I'd be totally fucked. I'm not the nicest of people- on the inside... which is ironic, because don't they say, "It's what's on the inside, that counts."? On most days, and in most situations, I'm projecting a much better person than I believe myself to be, just to fool the non-mind readers. Anyone with actual telepathic abilities could really throw me under the bus.

Birds. Some say majestic animals, I say scary-as-hell-beasts. From hummingbirds to eagles, they're all frightening to me. Turkeys, parrots, pets, birds of prey... All scary, all unnecessary in life. I clearly remember running (literally, running...) across Glenn-Terrell Mall from the 'Falcon Club', a group of swarthy ne'er-do-wells, strapped with leather gloves and a falcon on each arm, their razor sharp talons glistening. I didn't for a second trust the leashes the birds were tethered with, because... hello? They can fucking fly. Who's going to stop them?

Cause: I should mention that I was allowed to watch a little film by a certain Alfred Hitchcock at a young age, aptly title: 'Birds'. And what do you know? It was two hours about horrible, winged creatures.

Also, one time, a 'friend' (similar to the one who constantly dresses like a clown) locked me in a chicken coop for at least 25 seconds. They pecked, and pecked, and pecked at their food, and- it was terrifying. I don't think I'll ever be able to overcome the panic I felt in those harried moments before she opened that two foot tall gate and let me out.



And thank God she did, or else I'd probably be chicken food, if, in fact, chickens could evolve into carnivorous beings at the drop of a hat... And if I was chicken food, who'd be writing this? No one. And if you we're reading this blog entry, that was written by no one, or by my ghost perhaps... hmm...

Which brings me to my last irrational fear, GHOSTS.

Just kidding. I don't believe in ghosts. They're freaking ridiculously improbable.

What we should watch out for are those cotton clown clothes wearing, escalator riding, ferris wheel riding (they ride both, okay?), high-pitched mute sounding, telepathic chickens. They're everywhere.

Lurking on corners, in closets, under beds... in trunks.

Ugh. I'm creeping myself out, a bit.

the 'bitch' is back.

A few weeks ago I wrote an entire post lamenting about my lack of coolness. You know, my inability to party like the college student I used to be...

Hahaha, hahaha. Guess who's back?

I'm here to tell you that Saturday night, two days ago, during an impromptu visit to Pullman... bitch could hang. As a matter of fact, bitch hung out all night, drinking and laughing and dancing with the best of them (and by the best of them I mean the people who never forgot how to hang, aka my friends).

And since Saturday night brought me back to my roots, Sunday, naturally, was quite possibly one of the worst days of my life. Evidently I can drain bottles like it's nobody's business, but eventually reality sets in, my BAC drops, and I spend the rest of the day vomiting, sneering, crying, shuddering and cursing the day I met alcohol and subsequently fell in love.

It all started with a call from my dear friend, we'll refer to her as 'Maci'... as in we all refer to her as 'Maci'. Some people assume it's her real name. It's not.

Anyway, this 'Maci' calls me, and asks if I'd like to go to Pullman with her for the night. I thought, why the hell not? She said 'fall things' were on the agenda, so being the naive, lame person that I've grown to be, I figured we would go to dinner, carve some pumpkins, and maybe, if we were feeling really adventurous, we'd go to a haunted house. I should mention that I don't like haunted houses, I don't enjoy things grabbing at me or screaming at me or jumping out at me... spurts of terror-induced adrenaline coursing through my veins is for some reason unbeknownst to me, not my idea of a good time... so going to a haunted house was quite a stretch.

It seems that I needn't have worried. The words 'haunted house' were never uttered, though, the words 'round of tequila shots', were. Twice. And we all know that's just as frightening.

The night began with a walk up to Dupus Boomer's, WSU's only full bar that's legitimately on campus. I should have known that the minute we decided to forgo vehicular transportation, that we were in for a long night. Evidently we all had the foresight to know that no one would be in shape to get behind a wheel... though I probably could have been issued a citation for man-handling my wheel-y suitcase up B-street later that night... but that's neither here nor there.

At Dupus, we by-passed the 20 person line and walked straight into the bar, sitting down for mugs of hefeweizen and Blue Moon, ridiculously large margaritas, and what almost looked like double-shots of Jose, (they ran out of Pancho, so we had to make do...). Someone even ordered gator bites... and while they didn't taste like chicken, I'm not so sure they tasted like swamp, either.

After dinner and drinks, we meandered out of the CUB, singing the chorus of 'Who Let the Dogs Out', jumping on statues and, for some reason, quoting the Green Street Hooligans, mostly by yelling "FUCKING WANKER" in a British accent to anyone who'd listen... Our (or I should say the boys, as I generally decline to yell 'wanker' in anyones direction... I'm pretty sure) revelry was especially disconcerting to two boys of the brethren wearing their letters across the street, and the night almost became a little more interesting... but they were scared of our (again, not me, I just like the camaraderie I feel when I use pronouns) cool accents, obviously, so they backed off.

We shuffled into the Coug, put some Johnny Cash, Bob Marley and Nirvana (quite a threesome, I know) on the juke box, and immediately tucked into three Boone's passes and five pitchers of Pullman water (Busch Light...). I should also mention there were six of us... aka, we did work.

It was when we cheered (loudly) for ASU's last touchdown that we seemed to have alerted the staff to our presence, and one of the bartenders decided to come over for a chat. She draped herself over one of my friends, who we will refer to as 'My Man', and looked up at the screen, asking what happened. Now, a lot of people know and love 'My Man', so I thought nothing of this sign of affection, though in my wildest dreams I never expected the next turn of events... As I was about to explain, someone in our party, we'll call him 'Kriegs' stood, and yelled in her face, "NACHO BITCH!"

My tongue nearly fell out of my mouth.

As some of you may, or may not know, 'Nacho Bitch' is practically famous amongst my group of friends. Legend has it that 'My Man' was once eating, you guessed it, nachos at one of the local watering holes, when he happened to procure some cheesy residue upon his face. The girl he was probably trying to wheel at the moment alerted him to this fact, and, rather than hand him a napkin... licked it off of his cheek. At least, that's what I heard through the grapevine, aka my drunk friends who played witness to the incident. She was then dubbed 'Nacho Bitch', and has since lived on in what I assumed was, practically fictionalized, over-exaggerated infamy.

But lo-and-behold, 'Nacho Bitch' was alive and not so well, as she seemed a little perturbed to finally realize her nickname. She assured us that she had a real name, and to that I thought, no shit, we didn't think your parents named you after an encounter with a spicy Mexican appetizer. But I kept my mouth shut as she also informed us that she could, and I quote, "cut you off and kick you out if you piss me off." At least she lived up to part of her nickname...

After the 'Nacho Bitch' left us to our own devices, the Coug began to fill with its usual crowd of ne'er-do-well fun-havers, and though we love the place, we decided to skip along to the Club, known as Mike's, to cap off the night. Some people call it Stubblefields, but that's only if they're lame (and I was not, for one night only, so I obviously had to refer to it as Mike's).

As soon as we walked into 'the Club', I knew something was amiss. I could see the floor. I could obtain space at the bar, and if I wanted to, a table near it as well. The bartender could hear my normal-decibeled (I know it's not a word) plea for a vodka soda with extra limes... which begged the question: Where are all the loud, obnoxious drunks? Were we the only ones?

We bought our drinks, deciding to tempt fate by making a purchase off the specials board- a double Captain and Sprite that they advertised as tasting 'like a cream soda!!' With fear and trepidation, we took a sip, and to our great surprise, it did! Of course, I was two margaritas, one tequila shot, three boones passes and countless cups of Busch Light deep at that point, so my judgement may have been ever-so-slightly impaired.

We sauntered down to the lower level, where I once again, stood in shock and awe, and had to ask, "Where are all the drunks?"

There was only one grossly overly PDA-ing couple in sight, the poles and boxes were devoid of inebriated girls, and there was room to move. We could have square-danced, if the idea happened upon us. Thank God it didn't, because I'm sure not one of us would have thought it to be anything less than a superb suggestion.

After another round of double Captain and Sprites, tequila shots, and one 151-infused 'surprise' concoction, courtesy of my favorite Mike's bartender- the place started to fill up. Unfortunately, DJ Goldfinger wasn't spinning, so there were no random "BITCH!" chants through-out any of the songs, but all in all it was a great night. I don't actually remember the rest of it, but I'm pretty sure it was fun.

I think we walked home, though I'm unsure of the route, or who 'we' entails. I had a suitcase, I think, and I struggled in wheeling it back to Providence Court, though it would seem I eventually got there.

Waking up the next morning around 10, I spent a few hours on the bathroom floor, you know, just hanging out. My friends asked if I was dead, to which I replied, with conviction, "Yes."

As I had to work later that night, (fuck my life, right?), we had to head home immediately, even though I was in no shape to drive, ride, or live. But 'Maci' only had to pull over twice, and I only felt like death during 98% of the trip... Sure, I swore off drinking in my nauseated, head-aching state, and yeah, I briefly fantasized about throwing myself out of the car... but greatness comes at a price, you know?

I guess what I'm trying to say is, killer hangover and shoddy recollection of the previous nights' events be damned... being a true 'Coug', and by that I mean drunk, is always worth it.

GO COUGS!




Check back in next week, because I'll probably have tons of fun sober stories. Not possible, you say? Oxy-moron?

Yeah. You're probably right.

excuses make you lose your power...**

Excuses, excuses, excuses... we all use them. They’re convenient, sometimes easy to come up with, and make everyone feel better about the situation at hand. But when do excuses cross the line?

The other day while driving home from work, I was pulled over by the Pasco police. Why, you ask? Oh, well, it was because I didn't have my lights on, and it was roughly 10:30 PM. I've been driving for nearly six years, ergo I should know when it's appropriate to use my headlights.

When asked about my egregious error in vehicle maneuvering, I came up with this gem of a reason... “I just wasn’t thinking.”

Yeah bitch, I guess.

We, as in humans/Americans/people in general, seem to use the, "I just wasn't thinking", excuse a lot. Why is this? We all know it's total bullshit. Umm, yeah right, I wasn’t thinking... I'm pretty sure it's physiologically impossible to 'not think'. Sometimes I’m just a dumbass, plain and simple.

Overuse of this ‘not thinking’ line could mean one of two things. Either society’s intelligence is nearing reality show star level (several points above a vegetative state, for those of you who are unfamiliar with The Hills), or... we just like to make shit up to cover our own asses.

Could stupidity and the ability to ‘not think’ really be a pandemic of H1N1 proportions? I certainly hope not, but we all had to know that the end of human intelligence was near when a show like, "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant", had enough material to air more than one episode. Really? You didn't know you were with child? For the love of all that is holy, keep it to yourself, and hope that your kid doesn't someday stumble across the DVD record of you telling the nation the story of its birth, which happened to be in a toilet, while you were halfway through your shift at Wendy's. The poor kid is going to have a hard enough life with you as a parent.

As hopeless as I feel after watching a marathon of idiotic pregnant women confessing their parking lot birth stories (more so because I wasted time watching, rather than caring that it actually happened), I don’t think stupidity is the real issue. I know, I'm as shocked as you are.

I think, what people actually mean when they say, "I just wasn't thinking!" is, "That was so fucking stupid, I can't believe I did that, I’m sooo embarrassed." Blaming your less-than-brilliant idea (or lack thereof) on misfiring synapses in your prefrontal cortex just sounds better than admitting your own defeat.

"I just wasn't thinking!" isn't the only ‘cop-out’ phrase we frequent... Who hasn't used the little ditty known as, "No offense-", as a pre or post statement warning? By informing our conversational target that we mean no ill-will, it's almost as if we're allowed to say anything without fear of repercussions.

It’s quite literally an excuse to be a jerk, because, you’re forcing the person beforehand to take no offense. Like telling someone you’re going to pinch them, and then following through- they can’t get mad, can they? You warned them!

But, like all good excuses, ‘no offense’ can only go so far in protecting you. It’s like verbal birth control, it’ll most likely keep a child at bay (take note, ‘I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant’-ers!), but it won’t save you from herpes... shudder.

"No offense, but that was the most idiotic thing I've ever heard," seems allowable in conversations amongst friends, but I would never utter, "No offense, but your baby is ugly as fuck,"... even if the child in question was exceedingly unattractive. It just seems rude, and it’s one of those things you can’t come back from (like herpes...). It’s highly unlikely that the mother of Godzilla’s mini-me will let you continue in your attempts to assure her that your statement was really a complement, that ‘ugly as fuck’ means ‘pretty as an angel’ in your vocabulary. You’d be better off feigning a strange bout of Tourette’s.

To me, saying 'no offense' is technically just saying, "I'm an ass, and I realize that this is a rude thing to say, but I'm going to go ahead with it anyway because, well, I already told you I'm an ass... What more do you want from me?!?"

When it comes down to it, we're all guilty of using convenient phrases to skirt around common decencies like accountability, assumed aptitude and decorum... it’s part of our charm. And while excuses seem reasonable at certain points in our daily lives, we all need to realize that they are always going to be just that... excuses. They may give us a chance to bide some time and make up for our bad behavior, but they’ll soon become as tired as Tom Cruise... and no one will want to hear, or see them, anymore.

But have no fear! Thankfully, college has shown me that there is one excuse that nullifies nearly anything you could ever say or do (sans bodily harm or injury, those trump all)... Yep, you guessed it.

Drunkenness. No explanation needed. You’re welcome.

PREACH.




**And I'll buy a beer, or juice, for the first person to name the man responsible for the title of this entry.

look at me, i'm maturing... sort of.

It seems like it was just last week that I declared my immaturity... you know, my penchant for Hercules, Mulan and the Little Mermaid and distaste for matrimony and children?

Oh, wait, it was last week. Literally seven days ago. But I'm here to tell you, that yes, I am maturing. Slowly.

As ridiculous as it may sound (and I assure you, it will sound ridiculous, especially if you read it out loud in a Minnesotan accent), I discovered my new found maturity while singing along to a Miley Cyrus song. Right, I know. It's not just my varied music tastes that assure me of my limitless intellectual boundaries...

You see, all my life, I've been terribly afraid of what other people think of me. I'm a very cynical and sarcastic person, but I try to keep my bitchy asides to myself, and the people I call my best friends- you know, the ones that I'm friends with because they either have incriminating photos of that one night, know way too much about the 'real' me, or because it's too hard to break in a new friend at this age. But to strangers, I strive to be unusually pleasant and try way too hard at being humorous and agreeable.

It's exhausting.

I've always been fearful of disagreeing with the status quo, or voicing my opinion if I thought it to be contrary to the majority's. I don't know why, but I've constantly censured myself. It's not even that my opinions are that wacky, or outlandish, or offensive. When I was younger, I guess it was just easier not to have them at all, tame as they may be.

Last Thanksgiving, we were all sitting in my grandparent's living room, when my cousin let out a slight giggle. "Nice shoes, Grandma."

I looked over to my grandmother, who was born in the 1930's, and down to her fancy footwear. She was wearing Rocawear sneakers.

"Thank you! I got them at Macy's." --Was her reply. She didn't care that people her age generally stick to Keds, and I really doubt she knows who, exactly, Jay-Z is. The simple fact was, they were brown and gold and matched her outfit, so she bought them. She liked them, and that was all that mattered.

It got me thinking... maybe that's what maturity is? Liking what you like, being who you are, with no excuses or explanations necessary.

And that begs the question... who am I? I'm not really sure, but here are a few truths:

I like that Miley Cyrus song. I don't like all of her songs, but the new one, Party in the USA? I like it. If it's on the radio, I'll sing along. If it comes up on my iPod's shuffle (yes, I downloaded it) I may pause long enough to hear it through its last chorus.

Clueless, is probably my favorite movie of all time. I have others that I quite enjoy: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Next, This is Spinal Tap, My Man Godfrey, Edward Scissorhands and the Princess Bride... but Clueless? It was brilliant. I don't care what anyone says.

I love Target. It is a fantastic store.

Sometimes I watch NFL games, but only for three reasons. Tom Brady, Brady Quinn, and Mark Sanchez. I couldn't care less about the game. I usually only watch a few minutes, get in a few close-ups of the QB, and peace out to a different channel. Probably ABC Family or something equally juvenile.

I'm disorganized to a fault. It's pathetic, because I have planners and binders and file folders and bins and hangers and ANYTHING anyone would ever possibly need to be a reasonably neat and tidy person. And I disregard them. It's as if I buy them to appease some sort of cleanliness obsessed person deep inside me, but my sloth-like tendencies always come out the victor.

I hate Ugg boots, Ed Hardy, Juicy fits (tracksuits, to those of you who don't have a Jevon dictionary) and probably almost anything fashionable... Perhaps it's that I have no fashion sense, but I'm okay with that.

Apathy is something I've mastered, conquered and learned to hate. It's who I am, but I know that to become a better person, I need to fight against it with all my strength. I'll work on that tomorrow, I guess.

I don't understand the whole Twilight, Edward, vampire obsession. I've read the books, I saw the movie. I still don't get it. And I'm pretty sure I'm one of about eight people that shares that opinion. I also don't understand the hoopla surrounding Star Wars, or the Lord of the Rings. Though, I have to admit, I love Harry Potter. I'm not 11, but I sure as hell would drop anything and everything if my Hogwarts letter rolled in tomorrow, late because of my frequent address changes...

So there you go. A tiny, little peek into the real me. These things may not seem monumental, at all, but most of them are things that I clearly remember lying about. Oh, also, I lie a lot. Mostly to strangers, but does that make it any better? Actually, I think it does... but that's neither here nor there.

It comes down to the fact that you may not like me, but I can't say that I actually care. Well, I probably do, because who am I kidding, I live to be liked... But I'm going to try not to.

I'M BECOMING A GROWN UP!

So suck on that, suckers (lame...).

the real world: pasco

No, I don't live with seven strangers while camera crews chronicle my every inebriated mistake (assuming that most decisions made under the influence are, in fact, mistakes), but I feel that I've begun to wade into the pool that is 'real life'.

FYI... It is an icy cold bitch with one hell of an undertow. And it's riddled with slimy seaweed that scares the crap out of you when it slithers around your leg.

The many perks of real life have made me stop and think, and realize that I sincerely miss college.

My memories of joy and splendor in the tundra of the 509 prompted me to recently rearrange my entire schedule, setting aside a Saturday night especially for a Pullman reunion. One night in the birthplace of constant revelry and drunken good times was all it took to comprehend how far I've come since my abrupt departure last spring.

I've become lame, and sober, or as some of my friends would say, "Bitch can't hang." Two beers into the night, I found myself content with watching the lewdness surrounding me rather than joining in. I poured out the warm ale taking up residence in the bottom of my bottle (something that is practically punishable by death) and became a fly on the wall in the world of collegiate merrymaking.

Truth be told, I even refused a thrice offered pull of watermelon vodka. Of course, I hate watermelon, I've struggled with vodka since a camping trip gone awry, and I'm a little bit of a hypochondriac- thereby deathly afraid of catching the swine flu... but I haven't always been so pragmatic. The old me would have thrown caution to the wind, impending illness be damned. I would have choked down the fruit flavored atrocity gladly, if only because it was free and wasn't wearing a Monarch label.

People climbed on cars, falling off them ever-so-gracefully, they were tricked into taking shots of olive oil, they screamed and yelled and fell and most likely vomited. There was ping pong in the yard, and condoms strewn about the ground. Reliving the night, I'm beginning to think that every college movie and show that we all feel is ridiculously over-exaggerated... probably isn't. Crazy shit goes down.

College is one of those places where people sing in the streets and dance on the sidewalks. It's where people get their heads shaved (unbeknownst to them) on the front steps of their friend's house at one in the morning. In college you can heckle a girl on the bus because you don't believe her English accent is real, or run through parking lots screaming about some boy you're obsessed with in your Econ class. Just don't throw your camera in his general direction... drunk you won't be able to figure out how to fix it until the tequila wears off...

People in college can run into Pita Pit, in the middle of the afternoon, holding a small white mouse, demanding shredded cheese. They can also discuss shrooming in a tanning bed, and scream into their cell on campus, "I do not have AIDS!"

In Pullman, Wednesday is Wing Night, and on Tuesdays you used to be able to consume Flat on Your Wileys until you regained consciousness next to your trash can, in your bed, your house key bent in half. You can even wake up in your apartment managers office, having pissed all over her desk, wearing a swim cap with an American flag draped over your body.

God, I miss those days.

Most of the time, I don't feel like a grown up at all. I still live with my parents, I can't stomach the thought of eating tomatoes, and I have a certain affection for Disney movies... but I am 22 years old. I am technically a grown up. I see people my age (and younger) having babies, and getting engaged, and getting married... and it all makes me a little bit sick. Not because it's bad, or gross, or unnatural- but because I am so far away from 'that place' that it's hard to fathom my peers are nearing it. Or taking up residency in it.

Then, while perusing Facebook, I see the many albums of the 'kids' who are enjoying their first year or two out of high school. I think to myself, "Do they do anything other than drink? Good Lord. They're seriously drunk all the time. And why are they posting these pictures? They look hideously wasted. And whore-ish."

Cut to picture #242 of yours truly, and feel free to call me a hypocrite. Or a drunk. Or one hell of a competitor... (did I previously neglect to reminisce about 'The Ladder'?)

WSU was (and I say was with immense fondness and slight sadness) an amazing time. I love the town, and the people, and the energy that surrounded the Palouse. But there's nothing like one night in the breeding ground of debauchery to jostle me (permanently) out of the college mindset.

I'm not 19 anymore. I like drinks that taste good, and I quite enjoy waking up before noon. I have a limited tolerance for idiocy, as I get enough of it at work. I hate screaming over the music, and I shiver at the thought of sticky floors. I've become so incredibly lame.

I'm going to Vegas in a month, a place I'd vowed never to return to after my last four night stint... though I retracted my rather rash claim shortly after boarding the plane. I'm not worried, though. I know I'll be able to hold my own... Vegas can't touch Pullman. Even on the quietest of nights on the Palouse, choruses of "She's not that drunk!" can be heard near and far.

let's celebrate, with liquor, of course!

As Cinco de Mayo nears, and I train for nearly-lethal amounts of tequila and Coronas, I had a thought...

Almost all celebratory acts revolve around the (over)consumption of everyone's favorite drug... meth.  Er- I mean alcohol.

You aced (or even finished, I suppose) your Calc test?  BEER BONG!  It's your birthday?  Well then, here is a bottle of Monarch's finest and a bucket.  You'll need the bucket, trust me.  You're getting married?  Champagne!!  Oh, and a case of whiskey for when you realize what married life is all about...  Cheers!

Are we, as Americans (or humans in general), incapable of celebrating with out some sort of mind-altering agent?  I'm beginning to think so.

Last Cinco de Mayo was my second day in a post-21 run world, and it was also a Monday.  So you can only imagine the kind of shenanigans most of the Tri was up to.  And by that, I mean the town was practically dead.

But I was excited.  I finally got over my Cheney/Pullman induced alcohol coma, and was ready and rearing to go.  A few equally energetic comrades and I wandered into the Sports Page, a local watering hole that's usually filled with a college crowd, as well as several cougars (not the crimson and gray kind...) and truckers.  

There were four patrons other than us, and no drink specials in sight.  Needless to say, we ran our asses out of there before you could say, "Cops!"

The next stop was the Parkade, which was surprisingly (not really) even more lame.  We asked the tattooed bar maiden of the specials, and she looks at us as if we were drunk, though we were unfortunately mostly sober.

"We don't have drink specials."  She spat.  All right then, fuck you, see if we come back.  We're on a budget here and need to get lit.

So, heads hung low and spirits nearly drowned, we wandered into a little place called, THE TRASH.  It is not an ironic nickname, it is quite literally made up of, and full of, trash.  There were bras hanging from the ceiling and a caliber of clientele that is probably only mirrored in rural Arkansas.  Things were not looking good.

That is, until we spotted a little thing called the specials board...

"$3.00 Margaritas and 50 cent Tequila Shots!!!!!(until 12)" it read.  Well shit, it was 8:30, and it was gonna be a loooooong night.

After a few (haha) tequila shots and several blue margaritas, we found that THE TRASH was filling up fast, with, you guessed it- classy folks.

We found ourselves mingling and dancing and cavorting with the best of them, and by the best I mean the worst.  Almost all of us made it 8 seconds on the mechanical bull- oh, did I not mention there was a mechanical bull?  There was.  And one of us was in a dress.

It was a magical, magical night.  

Nights like Cinco de Mayo '08 and St Patrick's Day '09 (in Vegas, aka very interesting) make me wish I was of Mexican, or Irish decent, so that I could feel a little more legitimate and a little less of a cheap drunk when I celebrate with such ferocity.

Someday I will probably celebrate Cinco de Mayo how it's supposed to be celebrated... which is, uh... Well, to be truthful, I have no idea what the fuck Cinco de Mayo is.  

So until I figure that out, I guess I'll be down at the bar with a $7 bucket of Dos Equis and a few shots of Pancho Villa.  

¡VIVA LA REVOLUCION!

deceptions learned

Liar, liar, pants on fire, hanging on a telephone wire...

Well, if only that were true.  What a sight to behold, eh?  All the truth-impaired individuals, strung up by their Levi's, set a blaze with the fury of 'truthiness' everywhere...

The problem is, if we were all set on fire every time we told a fib, well, we'd all be casket crispies, spending the afterlife with millions of other burnt up tricksters.

For many of us, Santa was one of the biggest lies perpetuated to us in our youth.  There are literally thousands (or at least 3) lies that stem directly from the winter holidays.  

Be good, because Santa is watching you, and if you're good, he'll bring you presents!!  And we all love presents, don't we?  

It's better to give than to receive...  Sure, sure, where are my presents?  

It's the thought that counts.  What the fuck were you thinking when you bought me this ridiculous sweater?  I got you an iPod!?!

We're saddled with the thoughts that our eyes will stay crossed, that the Boogie Man may or may not be in our closet, and that our permanent record will surely be our undoing.  It doesn't take a lot of brain power to determine that eyes don't just stay crossed- you have to like, get hit in the head really hard or something.  And if he was anywhere, the Boogie Man would probably be under our beds.  Don't even get me started about permanent records...  Whoever started that one needs a swift kick to the shin.

When my mother was 5 or so, she had a babysitter who was especially practiced in the art of deception.  She found my mother in her parents room, putting on lipstick.  The babysitter looked at her, with what I can only assume was annoyance/sheer brilliance, and said this:

"You shouldn't have done that, Becky."

"Why?" My mom asked, terror-stricken.

"Lipstick is poison for little girls.  That's why they're not supposed to use it.  Now you're probably going to die."  

My mother put down the lipstick, devastated.  She went to her room, turned off the light, got under her covers, and waited to die.

The worst thing I ever did to a kid while baby-sitting was try and convince him that his name was spelled, "B-U-T-T-H-E-A-D".  Amateur.

I learned from my parents and other relatives to lie for two reasons, and two reasons only: to spare someone their feelings/sanity, or because it's funny when you get away with it.

I was in a play in first grade about dinosaurs, and I had two parts.  I was an Ankylosaurus (which I pronounced ankle-o-sore-us), and T-Rex.  I had a removable head piece that was fastened with velcro, and I had many lines (probably about 7) to remember and deliver with conviction.  After our first, last and only showing, I rode the bus home with fellow students and dinosaurs alike.  One boy, whom we shall call Duke Matchbord, was being an especially tough critic.  He was a fifth grader, whom I had my eye on, and was insanely cool and cute and wonderful.  But he thought the play was lame-to-the-extreme, as all 9 year olds would, because they're too good for everything and everyone.

But I digress.  So Duke didn't like the play... Well, there was really nothing I could do about that.  The next day in class, I felt the need to tell my fellow Rm 4 comrades of my brush with greatness/defeat.  For some reason I found myself in front of the class, crying, about the harsh words Duke had for us.  

I wailed, "and he said... he said, he hated the ankle-y one the most!!!!!!"

He didn't.  

I don't know why I said that.  I've been a liar and drama queen from birth, and while I don't know why that is... I have theories.

As a young child, I would frequent my grandparents pool in the summertime.  On one very special occasion, my cousin and I noticed that our grandfather had a rather large scar on his stomach.

"Grandpa, what is that?" I asked, or my cousin asked.  It guess it doesn't really matter.  One of us asked it, of that I am sure.

"This?  Oh, well kids, this here is where a bayonet sliced me during the Revolutionary War."

We looked at him, wide eyed with wonder.  Wow!  A bayonet wound.  From the Revolutionary War?!  We had no reason to distrust this wonderful man, as he would never beguile us with falsities of heroic wartime acts!

Who would lie about that?

My Grandpa, evidently.  It took me until our Revolutionary War unit in 4th grade to really question his authority, and wonder exactly how he could be 240 years old, while my Grandma was only 37...  Wait a minute?  She was lying too!

And we wonder how I turned out this way.

things I'll miss about college-

There are a few things, the majority of which deal with the over-consumption of alcohol and other substances, that run rampant in a college town.  With graduation nearing, I've compiled a short, sweet little list of some of the things that are near and dear to me... things that will be sorely missed when I leave Pullman for the real world.

1. The lack of children.  There aren't a lot of pre-teens running around campus, which makes me immensely happy.  Also a little sad, because I think they'd have a hell of a time at a kegger.

2.  The morning of November 1st.  There's nothing funnier than seeing slutty Tinkerbell, slutty Bo Peep or slutty anything-you-can-think-of wandering the streets, hair mussed and stilettos in hand.  It's satisfying to know that while you're on your way to class, they're pretty much on their way to hell.  Though, it's a little less funny when people are staring at you, still dressed in your Dorothy outfit, dragging a stuffed Toto and ruby red slippers across the parking lot, face full of shame and regret...

3.  Remembering your night in increments.

12:00 PM, waking up after a particularly rough Saturday night-  What a night!!  Drinking, fun with the friends, laughing, dancing.  I love college.

1:30 PM, flipping through your history book-   Oh my God, did I do a keg stand last night!  Yep, pretty sure I did.  I wonder how long I lasted?  I hope no one saw up my skirt...  Ha, who cares, I was wearing underwear.  I think...

2:06 PM, watching an episode of Weeds-  Wait, did I smoke weed last night?  Yeah, I think I remember that...  All in a good night!

3:15 PM, picking your belongings up off of the floor, where you threw them last night-  Why is my camera all scratched?  Shit, I totally fell down the stairs again, didn't I?  At least it didn't leave marks this time...  

4:10 PM, taking a shower-  Wait, what are all these bruises from?  Ugh, stairs.  

5:31 PM, loading a new Facebook album-  Ha, look at all of them dancing on the poles!  Sluts.  I'm glad I wasn't that out of control.

5:40 PM, Facebook notification-  I'm tagged in a video?  Oh, it's last night!  Wait, what am I... oh God.  Why am I on the pole?  Why am I upside down?  And I'm in a skirt, great.  Oh fuck, there's my underwear.

4. The thrill of playing textbook Russian Roulette.  To buy, or not to buy.  Sure, you can be one of those kids who orders all their books before the semester starts and has them waiting for them the weekend before class... but really, who does that?  Instead, I think it's fun to not buy the book until you absolutely have to.  Like the night before the assignments due.  Yeah, ok, you might get screwed and the book might be sold out... but on the bright side, you might go the whole semester without ever needing said book...  Then you won't feel so guilty for spending your book money on cheap vodka and cigarettes.

5.  Being a guest in your own home.  Who doesn't love going home and having Mom and Dad fawn all over you, cooking your favorite foods, making your bed and whatnot?  Their happiness to see you usually wears off around 9 PM when you decide you'd rather go drinking with your friends at a local pub than play Scrabble, but hey.  It was fun while it lasted.  Also- free laundry.

6.  There is an abundance of people your age.  No matter your taste or sexual preference, there are quite literally thousands of students to pique your interest.  You like the athletic boys?  Join the ranks of some of the nations best jersey chasers by hanging around the gym in your cutest Pink! sweats, or frequent the football/basketball/baseball parties, hair teased and heels high.  Athletes not your style?  Try the frat-tastic jackasses on Greek Row.  They're the ones wearing the matching sweatshirts, or flamboyantly colored Polos and A&F tees, laughing and yelling and reveling in each other's magnificence.  More into the Goth culture?  I'm sure they hang around the art building, or something...

7.  There's always the possibility of being part of a deep conversation.  You haven't lived until you've discussed what Neitzsche really meant when he said, "God is dead," at 3 in the morning, with your roommates shacking buddy, after 6 beers and 3 vodka crans.   Oh, the enlightenment.

8.  You have no real responsibilities.  Sure, you might have a part time job, and yeah, your calculus class is probably pretty rough, but largely, life is good.  If you mess up on someone's order of Clucks and Fries, no one's going to die.  And if you fail calc?  Take it again.  Oh, you've already failed it once?  Perhaps you should try a less strenuous major, like General Studies.  And maybe pick up some extra shifts at Red Robin...

9.  You can drink excessively, act like a total ass, and no one's judging.  When else in life is it socially acceptable to drink until you are impaired in almost every plane of existence?  I'll tell you where, no where!  Unless you were raised by a bunch of alcoholics, in which case, Thirsty Thursdays are nothing but a review.  In college, people pay no attention to the idiot falling down the stairs, stumbling around, pushing and groping unsuspecting passersby.  Who's that?  Oh, that's Billy.  He shot-gunned like, 8 beers an hour ago.  Fucking awesome, right?  Next he's gonna beer bong a fifth of Jack!  Epic!!!

10.  I was drunk, is always a valid excuse.  This won't work forever, but for now, you can explain to your roommates that you didn't do the dishes, because you were drunk.  To your partners in econ, you can explain that while you started your part of the paper, you didn't finish it, because you were drunk.  You said something offensive to your friend?  Well, you were really drunk, so, actually, you didn't mean it.  People won't always like this answer, but they'll sure as hell respect it.  But I'm betting your boss, your spouse, and your children will not be so understanding...

technology is failing me.

I am getting old. At the used-to-be-tender age of 21, I have decided to throw in the towel and let the rest of the world pass me by.

I'm trying to embrace the fact that I'll just be one of those crotchety old people who doesn't know an iPhone from a Fuji, or Gala. Or, more appropriately, a Granny Smith. When is the age that we stop keeping up with the Jones', and instead spend the bulk of our time trying to understand why the damn commercials are so loud?

A while back, a group of friends (more like classmates and other people I don't like, minus Kaylee, who sometimes I do like) were talking about Flo Rida. Not hearing the emphatic space between flo and rida (loss of hearing is also a sign of old age...) I misunderstood their entire conversation. Butting in, I said,

"Yeah, well, I've been there once. Orlando though, I only went to Disney World."

Kaylee looked at me with confusion, and then what I can only assume was pity.

"We're talking about Flo Rida. The rapper? You know, 'then shorty got low, low, low...' Not the state of Florida."

Was this just the first of many egregious errors I am to make as a person who is no longer as technically, or pop culturally savvy as I once was? Oh, the horror.

I was watching The View the other day, and was accosted by a segment about teens and Facebook. And texting. And MySpace. And whatever the hell else that's out there corrupting the young minds of today. They were throwing out acronyms like, PIR (parent in room), MTFBWY (may the force be with you... ha, ha, ha.) and TDTM (talk dirty to me)... which all made me want to say, WTF? When did I grow up, and how did I get so far out of the loop???

To get back in said loop, I recently created a Twitter account. And by recent, I mean today. About an hour ago. I created it mainly because my two roommates and I had no fucking clue what a "Twitter" was. I have to admit, I'm still a little bit foggy about the whole ordeal.

It seems to me that it's a site full of Facebook Minifeed updates.

So-and-so is watching the Grammy's, and thinks M.I.A. might give birth right in the middle of her swaggering.

Why the hell would anyone want to use a site like this? And who really cares?

We brought in the AIM, Facebook, and Tomagatchi generation, and now, we're being surpassed by the throngs of children who 'Tweet', who text rather than converse, and who use the word like as a noun, pronoun, verb and adjective, which is far trickier than it seems.

Standing in line behind a woman at Safeway the other day, I watched as she tried to use a coupon for her Prilosec OTC purchase. The cashier informed her that she had to go online to input some information to receive the discount. The woman handed back the coupon, as well as the acid reflux pills, and shook her head angrily.

"I don't have a computer. Nevermind," she said, gathering her purse as she left.

What?!? How does she check her e-mail? How does she peruse E-Bay for discount tea kettles and vintage sunglasses? How does she live??!!?

Then it came to me. She, like me, must have given up on technology sometime in her twenties. The roaring 50's took their toll, and she just couldn't fathom using electricity and driving a car without a crank lever...

Kidding aside, I feel her pain. It happens to the best of us. In her youth, Gertrude (as we will refer to her) was probably all a twitter (excuse the blatant pun) with the excitement of the hydrogen bomb and birth control, when the subsequent development credit cards and polio vaccine threw her for a loop. Too much, too soon...

My days of being up-and-coming on the tech scene, much like Gerty, are past. I'll forever show my age by using phrases like "Do you have cable?" or using the seldom heard proper terms, 'cellular phone' or 'text message'... or even asking the rarely uttered, "Can I write a check?".

Yep, my youth is gone.

Dag nabbit.

is that pen on your lip?

A few years ago, I made a special playlist. It’s poignant, introspective, pensive, and a ton of other adjectives that I don’t feel like sifting through the thesaurus for. It encapsulates my joy, my laughter, my sadness… It’s me, except, musicafied. If there were a movie about me, this playlist would be its soundtrack. Heavy bass lines would highlight my constant struggles, John Lennon’s eerie proclamation of happiness and warm guns would fill the awkward silences. And there will be tons of awkward silences, because it’s about me, and that’s kind of my thing. Uppity little numbers would bounce along as I toddle down the street, reveling in the wonder that is life. I revel and toddle a lot, and I’m almost always humming something Jack Johnson-ish whilst doing so.

As for the title of this movie all about me? I don’t know. A Beautiful Mind was at the top of my list, until I heard wind of some scientist or something stealing it right out from under me. Forrest Gump, or what I usually call myself, was also taken.

So, after racking my brain and bothering my friends for unique, moving suggestions (two things they evidently know nothing of), I’ve settled upon, Is That Pen On Your Lip?

To me, the phrase, "Is that pen on your lip?" encompasses the general public's ignorance, their complete incompetence in understanding anything about me, and their constant desire to find faults in anyone and everything. It’s also very catchy.

All my life, well, since like second grade or something, I’ve had a beauty mark on my lip. I don’t know the precise date of its appearance; I can’t seem to find record of it before my squinty-eyed second grade Christmas portrait, in which it is featured prominently.

I was penless in first grade, wearing a striped purple cardigan, my hair in a modified bob. I was very trendy, even as a seven year old. For some reason, I haven’t an actual second grade portrait from school. As far as Lincoln Elementary is concerned, I went from kindergartner in a kicky red tie/vest/skirt ensemble, that as I recall I had to rip off in fury after recess, to bob-wearing purple cardigan girl, to nothing... I guess by the time I hit second grade, Mother was disillusioned by school portraits and decided to take her business elsewhere. Elsewhere, in this case, was Sears. I’d always idealized those faux fireplace photos, jealous of my peers with their ivory carpet and perfectly trimmed tree poised in the background. In second grade I found out there was no such thing as Santa, and more devastatingly, that all those pretty living rooms were just figments of Sears’ imagination.

As of second grade, my school picture outfits went from unfortunate to downright sad. There was the lace leotard and green embroidered vest from third grade, the purple, blue and striped velvet atrocity from fifth, and my über-trendy Abercrombie shirt from ninth. In that instance it wasn’t the shirt that was unfortunate- a reversible tee that was navy on one side and bright green on the other. I’d paid $39.95 for it, and convinced myself its worth as two shirts, because of the reversibility. When I got the pictures back, I was pleased to see that my shoulder length hair was doing as I’d asked- making itself as normal and none frizzy as possible, and my shirt looked fantastic. I was a cool kid.

“Why do you look like that?” Jared asked, a boy I’d known since third grade, who was sitting near me in Honors Biology.

“Look like what?”

“Your face…” He smiled hugely, in what was evidently an absolutely hideous rendition of my grin. His eyes were squinty, his gums highly visible, his nose crinkled in a most unflattering way.

I looked at my picture again. “I think that’s just how I smile.”

“Pretty,” he laughed, turning back to his own flawless 8x10s.

It was then that I realized I’d been smiling incorrectly for 14 years. So lame.

When people point out ‘the pen’, I generally blush and look away. In addition to unseemly birthmarks (or second grade marks, rather) I suffer from high pigmentation. I turn ruby red at the drop of a hat. Fortunately, my high school colors were scarlet and gold, and at college we wore crimson and gray. I just looked especially spirited most of the time. “There’s that girl with the face paint again. And it’s not even game day, this is just Shakespeare class?! She’s so hardcore… GO COUGS!”

And just for the record, not one, single gorgeous member of the undead has ever found it endearing. No love for the tomato face, I guess.

After my complexion returns to its pasty pallor, I joke, “Whoops, got a little carried away with the BIC. Ha, ha, ha.”

What I really want to say, is, “It's not pen, actually, but thank you for noticing something about my face, thinking that it is most definitely not attractive and is probably accidental, and then pointing it out to me.”

I didn’t hear much about ‘the pen’ through grade school, or middle school, and even into high school it was only mentioned once, to my recollection. A friend’s boyfriend told her that he thought it was cute, and once she relayed this to me, I found myself praying at night that he’d break up with her and give me a shot- if only for a closer look at ‘the pen’. I’ve since been made aware that it’s frowned upon to pray for the infliction of pain upon others. Beginner’s mistake, I suppose.

It wasn’t until college, that ‘the pen’ really started to get on my nerves, and evidently the nerves of those around me, as every other person I met advised me to wipe the ink off my face.

“What’s that you got there?” My grandma asked, at least 12 years after ‘the pen’ appeared. I cast my eyes down to the kitchen counter, muttered something unintelligible, and shrugged. What was the use?

Acquaintances of high school friends would be introduced, and then, during games of beer pong and flip cup, they’d pull me aside in their drunken haze, telling me, “You got somethin’, right there. Right on your lip.” My friends would then laugh, shouting merrily about ‘the pen’ and then go back to their chugging or shooting or whatever. The acquaintance would be left confused, without answers, still wondering why I drew on my face in the first place?

It was a sunny Monday afternoon in Kennewick, Washington, when some old lady walked into The UPS Store. I happened to be behind the counter checking in packages, as I worked there, and my boss didn’t like it when I sat in the lobby texting my friends.

And, to be truthful, it probably wasn’t a Monday. It was a day of the week, of that I’m sure. And it wasn’t a Sunday, because God wouldn’t allow something so deplorable to happen on his day. Also, we weren’t open on Sundays.

So yeah, I was working. It wasn't a particularly eventful day- there wasn't a 124 lb. package of ‘herbs’ being sent to Brazil, there were no skunk heads expedited to Eugene to be tested for rabies, or anything that would be considered of consequence.

The woman ambled up to the counter, her arms weighed down by a large box filled with hand knitted sweaters and homemade fudge, no doubt.

We chatted for a moment while I measured her shipment, plugging in the dimensions to the computer and quizzing her on the ‘to’ address.

"Ma'am, that'll be $34.95." I smiled politely, as always. I found that a fake smile went so much further than a sincere look of indifference. My eyes raked over her blue-hued hair and her absolutely perfect teeth. Dentures, I suspected. I wondered what kind of horrid dental hygiene one would have to succumb to in order to warrant fake chompers. Were all her teeth gone? Maybe just the front ones?

Did she pull the remaining stumps in order to create a symmetrical appearance, and a more comfortable fit?

"Alright," she grinned, her face crinkling in lines that were probably cultivated during Johnny Carson’s reign. As she handed over her debit card, her eyes narrowed while she leaned forward, over the computer and into my personal space.

Hi, hello, lean the fuck back..., I thought. I quickly swiped her card, trying not to let my immense panic reach my expression. I did not like having the ability to smell a stranger’s rattled, reeking-of-Polident-and-sherry breath.

"Honey, I think you have some pen on your lip," she croaked.

"Oh, no, I don't," I said firmly, handing her card back.

"Yes, you do. It's right there." She pointed to her own lip. If it's where you're saying it is... isn't it you with the pen on your lip? HA! If only she could’ve heard my thoughts.

"No, I really don't."

"It's right there!" She sighed, reaching for me. As her twig-like arm jabbed at me, I deflected it, snapping the limb in half. Yeah. Not really, but I totally could have.

"No, it's really not." I assured her. "It's a freckle? Like a birthmark or something? It's not pen."

She looked embarrassed, clapping her brown spotted hands to her face and laughing nervously.

"Oh! Oh my, I'm so sorry, honey." It's okay... this time, I thought, smiling again. She’d probably feel terrible about it all day. She’d come back in the next week with a bag of homemade goodies as she continued to repent, ‘sorry this, sorry that, here have a cookie.’

As she reached the door, she turned one last time to offer her condolences.

"I'm so sorry, again! I just didn't want you walking around all day with it there!" She grinned one last time and left the store.

I nodded. Yeah bitch, I guess. It would be embarrassing if it were there all the time... wait a minute...

I like to think she’s the type of completely clueless, senile old person that goes up to children who are missing appendages, calls their lack of limbs to their attention, and then, noticing her mistake, says some other ridiculous, offensive remark.

"Timmy, you seem to be missing your right arm!"
"Yes ma'am, an alligator ate it when I was three."
"Oh, well, hopefully you won't always have to be a lefty? They really suck at everything. Like writing legibly. And wrestling alligators."

My second brush with self-loathing stemming from the imperfect pigmentation on my lip was during my post-college run at Starbucks. A girl came in, probably in her mid-twenties, and ordered an Americano, or espresso, or something else skinny 25-year-women order.

After I took her money, I gestured toward the end of the counter, where her bland, kind of gross low calorie beverage would appear once my coworker got around to making it.

She said thanks, and then paused for a moment, staring at me.

“You have something, some pen, maybe? Right on your lip.”

“Oh, no. It’s a birthmark. Been there awhile. I’ve tried to get it off with Neutrogena… but no such luck,” I laughed. I’m so goddamn witty, sometimes I impress myself.

Her meticulously groomed eyebrows raised, and she looked as if she wanted to strangle herself with the fashionable scarf she’d spent hours getting just right before she left the house.

“Oh my gosh! My brother, he had this mole on his cheek, and we always used to tease him about it when he was little, and then he got it removed… I was so sad. Because, you know, it was him.”

“Right,” I nodded, no longer feeling sorry for the blithering idiot standing before me. She likened my beauty mark to her brother’s hairy, probably cancerous, used-to-be-mole, but is now nothing but a pockmark!?

Cindy Crawford would never have stood for such abuse.

“Your drink is ready,” I finished flatly, my eyes narrowed as she shuffled sheepishly out of my sight.

My friends think that I should play along and watch the nosy imperfection-picker-outer squirm as I try to wipe off my ‘pen’ in vain. “Did I get it?” I’ll ask, rubbing my lip to no avail. “God, I hope I didn’t use that Sharpie for lip liner, again.”

I have a friend, Red, who has gingery hair and freckled skin. Once we were getting our nails done, and the technician asked, “What wrong with your skin?”

“Nothing,” she said flatly.

“It dirty,” he assured her, trying to rub away the marks from her forearm.

“They’re freckles,” she spat, already bearing a complex about her dotted skin originating from a water park incident gone awry...

Nine-year-old Red stood in line for the family slide at Oasis Waterworks, her ears pricking at the mention of her complexion. “Oh my God, I hope my freckles don’t look like that!” She heard a teen girl groan from a few feet back.

“God, ew, no. They don’t.” Her friend assured her, laughing at poor, pasty, freckly little Red.

Red slid down the four-person slide by herself and lurked underwater, most likely teary eyed (though she was underwater, you know, so it's not like you could tell), until the mean girls had vacated the pool, silently vowing to never wear a shoulder-bearing frock again.

Back in the present, Red glared at the man gripping her freckled limb.

“They don’t leave?” He asked, eyes widening. I couldn’t believe that in his 30+ years, he’d never seen a freckled person. He must’ve thought terrible things about American hygiene…

“No. They never go away.”

“Oh,” he nodded, chattering to his coworker in words we could no longer understand.

I’ve met others with ‘pen’ on their face, generally the cheek. I’d like to start a club, a support group of sorts, where people with faces devoid of things like freckles and moles are not allowed. They can go flaunt their creamy skin on the pages of Vogue, where they belong.