Monthly Archives: February 2012

Waking Up In a Closet Without Any Pants

I have wanted to write about this particular life experience for quite some time now, however I have constantly battled with myself over how “under 18” friendly I wanted to be. I know that adolescents read my blog and I can’t make them stop that just by switching to word press. Finally, I have made up my mind, and despite my better judgement, I am going to tell the story of the first time I was ever drunk.

Throughout high school, I was very adamantly against drinking, smoking, people using drugs or just having fun in general. I had high expectations for my high school career. I was going to be everyone’s role model, the perfect example of a well rounded honors student involved in multiple extra curricular activities, and to be honest, I would say I succeeded. I made it four years of high school without taking a drink of alcohol and encouraged my friends to do the same. In fact, my junior year of high school, it suddenly became the cool thing (by cool I mean hipster) to be “straight edge”. Not like the gang. Straight edge kids prided themselves on not putting anything in their bodies that altered their mood or state of mind. We were high on life… and our own egos.

It was the day before my college orientation and my friend Jacey was giving me one of her usual pep-talks.

“You need to get back on the horse.” She told me referencing my recent break up from my high school boyfriend and lack of a true blow out to celebrate my independence. “You’re coming to the surprise party tonight, and we’re making some memories that we won’t remember tomorrow.”

“That sounds like a lot of work… can’t we just watch The Nanny on Nick at Nite?”

“No! You’re coming out and you’re going to look HOT!”

Jacey is one of my oldest friends. We met our sophomore year of high school in a film class where I made a music video to “Sabatoge” by The Beastie Boys and she was one of three girls in leisure suits, curly wigs and mustaches. It was love at first sight. Jacey and I have a great relationship. When she’s feeling down, I’m always ready to help her back up, and when I’m feeling down, she’s always there to encourage me… into a short skirt and heels.

I told my mom that a few of us girls were going to be spending the night at Jacey’s house since it was our last night in town before all going off to our own colleges but instead drove 20 miles to a friend of a friend’s house to learn the art of partying: college level. Though I am very pleased with my choice to refrain from substances during high school, I did miss out on one basic lesson that most of my friends learned their freshman year of high school, not college: if you have never had alcohol before, a very small amount is going to make you pretty fucked up.

After an hour of being at the party, I had taken a few shots, had a beer and was working on my first cup of vodka/ punch. I had heard from friends that when you first drink, it hits you pretty hard, so I was surprised when I was still feeling sober as a judge after drinking what I felt was quite a bit. When I finished my first cup of vodka/ punch, I quickly moved on to cup number two… and a few shots of malibu.

I felt on top of the world. I was completely under the impression that alcohol didn’t effect me and I would be the composed one at this shit show. Then this happened.

That is Jacey standing over our friend Kiley in her “second outfit of the night”. It was the next morning when I was looking through my photos that I realized this was the exact moment that I became too intoxicated.

After Jacey had changed into what she felt was an appropriate outfit for beer pong, we returned to the party and I worked my way through a game of kings cup, but instead of drinking beer, I was drinking the vodka/ punch. I drank three cups in this one sitting at which point I gave my camera to my friend Kiley and presumed to get more drunk.

It was at this point that Jacey and Kiley decided to put me to bed.

The task of putting me to bed was a job that took multiple people and took place for over an hour. Shortly after this photo was taken, Jacey threw me over her shoulder, and she and Kiley drug me to a back room of the house and threw me onto a bean bag chair. Once I was settled into what felt like the best fucking bean bag chair known to mankind, Jacey took off my shoes. This was the last I would see of my shoes.

Almost immediately after being thrown onto the bean bag chair and having my shoes jacked, some guy came in and said they needed to put me in the room next door because… I don’t have a clue why.

The next thing I know, I was in a chair with Jacey on the floor in front of me with her hands up my dress.

“The fuck, Jacey! Why are you in my dress?”

“You don’t want to sleep in tights. I’m taking them off.”

She was right, I wouldn’t have wanted to sleep in tights, but she didn’t know that for sure and for all I knew she was trying to cop a feel on an unsuspecting drunk college girl. My best friend was virtually molesting me and I was in no position to tell her that, “the tights would be fine, please put more distance between you and my pikachu.” Jacey succeeded in removing my tights, but with my sudden leg freedom I realized that my cell phone was dead.

I demanded a moment of silence for my cell phone, after which Jacey plugged in my phone (big mistake) and went to open the door. The house we were staying at was kind of old and inhabited by boys, and consequently the door was extremely difficult to open and would become stuck almost all the time. The next string of images that is in my head involves Jacey wandering around the room trying to figure out how to get out of this room and back to alcohol, while Kiley was on the phone with her mom slurring through her reasoning for needing to be able to stay out.

“No, Mom, I ama not druznk, I jus wanna see Jacey before she sleeves!”

Before I could figure out why Kiley was talking about sleeves and why Jacey was now climbing out the window, the owner of the bedroom opened the door and I was left to my own devices… AKA my cell phone. I didn’t think I drunk dialed people, however I was wrong and I apparently do so in a british accent. Half of the people I went to high school with woke up to a ten minute voice message of me rambling about my night and whatever thoughts happened to be on my drunk mind. I remember being cut off by the voicemail more than three times and continuing to talk for another five minutes after my phone hung up.

The morning after a night of heavy drinking is never a beautiful picture. Especially when you wake up in a place you didn’t fall asleep, spooning someone you didn’t fall asleep with. Luckily for me the other person was Jacey and we were in a closet. Somehow I now had a pillow and a blanket and was the small spoon of what can only be described as true friendship. I sat up in the closet and looked at my phone. It read 7:27 AM and I needed to be at college orientation in 33 minutes. I quickly gathered up my belongings minus my shoes and my tights which were never recovered. I ran out to my car bare foot in a short t-shirt dress and drove to my house where I immediately threw up. I spent the next day and a half in a misery that can only be compared to reading Shakespeare and was left with a permanent reminder of my night of drinking in my student ID card where I am very obviously hungover in the photo.

I knew that this was a normal college experience and left it at that. I didn’t begin partying heavily and throwing my life away after getting drunk once, so thanks for lying to me 9 years ago D.A.R.E. I mostly forgot about the night until months later when I saw a picture of my friend with the guy whose house we partied at on Facebook. I commented on the photo saying, “Hey! I passed out in his roommate’s closet this summer.” Almost immediately he responded, “Yeah, with no pants.”

I responded the only way that I knew how. With the truth: “I wasn’t wearing pants that night.”

This just goes to show that after four years of being a good girl and the ultimate role model, it only takes one night of partying to make me forever known as the girl who passed out in that guy’s closet, spooning her best friend, without any pants.


The Button Theory

I was five years old and well into Kindergarden when I figured out how to get boys to do anything I wanted.

I think it happened by accident one day while playing soccer at an after school program. It was my first year playing after school soccer, and I was in the youngest age group. We spent a lot of time learning how to kick and not use our hands and basically challenge every motor skill we had very recently developed.

This particular practice, I partnered up with a boy named Jake who was in my class. Since I was only five, I hadn’t had the chance to meet people and create friends that hadn’t been through play-dates set up by my parents, so I was increasingly interested in meeting new people. Each week I had partnered with a different person, but I found some reason why they weren’t able to hang out with me in real life. The first girl I partnered with didn’t talk. I knew that she could talk because she said “here” in this little mousy voice every time they took attendance, but every time I said a word to her she just stared at me.

“Hey! Girl! I asked how your day was! Are you death?!”

At this point in my life I also did not realize that death did not mean “no longer living” as well as “unable to hear”. Minor mistake.

The next girl I partnered with spent the whole time telling me about all of the cool dolls her dad brought back to her after “business trips”. I distinctly remember her putting “business trips” in quotes, which either means she knew her dad was sleeping with a woman in the next state, or her mother really underestimated how much five year olds observe and repeat. I could tell right away though that this chick was trouble. When she wasn’t talking about all of her cool shit, she was talking shit. When she said something about my friend having weird eyes, I told her it was better than having her face… and things got a little tense. When we finally were playing, she  tripped me on the field like three times, so obviously she was a bitch and I didn’t want to be friends with her or her Malibu Barbie.

So this day I decided to partner with a boy. Jake was a nice guy ,and I let him cheat off my phonics worksheets for nothing in return, just because I was nice. I also thought his friend Andrew was cute and figured that I should be friends with Andrew’s friends for when we got married.

I went over to him and asked if he wanted to be my partner, and he agreed. We began passing the ball back and forth, but after a few minutes it became competitive. There are three things in this world I hate: passive aggressive people, Lifetime movies, and losing. I usually didn’t have problems with my competitive side coming out around other girls (my bossy side on the other hand is a completely different story), but with a boy, I took his slightly harder kick than mine to be a challenge. We had gotten to be kicking the ball very hard, until finally I kicked the ball as hard as I could, racking him in his balls. He immediately dropped to the ground clenching his crotch and said, “You win”, before bursting into tears.

I immediately felt this sensation of accomplishment in winning our scrimmage, and the cogs in my little head began turning. I deduced that when boys are hit on their pelvis they fall down and I win. I couldn’t figure out what on earth could have caused this type of reaction, but if boys were made with a button that made them fall down and cry, that was evolution’s mistake and I couldn’t be held responsible for using my superior genes and taking advantage of my newfound knowledge.

The next day at recess I decided to test my theory on a different boy, just incase Jake wasn’t the only one with the button. I found a boy from the first grade named Kris. I didn’t want to take the chance of hitting someone in my class and having them tell Ms. Simon, so a first grader seemed like the safest bet. I walked up to Kris, who said hello, and I immediately swung my right let back and kicked him square between the legs. In hindsight, this may not have been the best first impression when I was trying to make friends.

After having a second boy crumble to what I was now calling “The Button Theory”, I decided it was fact (I did later learn that scientifically, two positive tests does not equal conclusive evidence, but I was still right).  I used the tactic to get anything I wanted whether it be pudding cups or the good basket ball; I was invincible.

I never thought my rein would come to an end, until one day I was sitting next to Andrew at the lunch table and he took a hand full of my chips without even asking. I obviously would have given him some if he had asked, but this was a clear violation of my personal space and I could not get involved with a person like that. Those chips though were not his, and I wanted them back. I punched him underneath the table and walked away to sit somewhere else. What I didn’t realize was that Andrew was a tattle-tale.

Ms. Simon came up to me at recess after lunch and sat me down to have a long conversation about hurting other people. I explained the button theory and that I was conducting science, something she supposedly encouraged in class. She reinforced that I wasn’t allowed to hit boys there because it caused them a lot of pain and that wasn’t how nice girls behaved. I told her I understood and that I would apologize to the boys.

In the end I walked away with the knowledge that I wouldn’t be able to have control over boys whenever I wanted, but more importantly with the knowledge that I won the kicking game against Jake and he knew it, too.

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