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.

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...

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.