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.