How to Not

Hello! It occurred to me that since I can now write just about whatever I want, and since I feel like writing something but I don't feel like sticking to some How To topic, what you get instead is pretty much the opposite, born of the cumulation of many, many cat-related things floating around my mind. Basically...

Cats as Excuses for Things

There's a common theme in a lot of my writing, which seems to be...not exactly How (Not) To, but more like, How To NOT, because the whole point is literally to get out of the act of DOING anything. I am an incredibly lazy person, and figuring out how to NOT do anything you don't want to do, ever, is sort of one of my main hobbies (for example, I've recently perfected the art of having sex without actually moving, for when you're really tired, or, let's be honest, really drunk). I've probably spent more time figuring out how to cheat the system than it would have taken to legitimately succeed in it, but hey, here's some tips so maybe my kids will read this one day and their lives will be easier.

...aaand there's reason #593 why I should never, ever be allowed to have children. Moving on!

Excuses for being late to class

Which I nearly always am.

Ladies and gentlemen, being that we are no longer in high school - a terrible place where if you don't show up enough, they CALL YOUR PARENTS - and education is, for all intents and purposes, a service industry, this is perhaps not as relevant as it once was. But still, professors don't like it when you're late, and why should they? While you can go to the obvious medical excuses for actually missing an entire class - diarrhea, pink eye: the more embarrassing, the less it gets questioned - what is the best way to excuse yourself when you're just a few minutes late?

In high school, much like the cat above, I used to be so afraid of the uncomfortable late walk of shame that if I didn't scoot into my seat before the bell rang, I just said, "Well...fuck it!" and went out for a snack off-campus. You will probably not be shocked to learn that this did not result in my doing very well in AP Calculus. You will probably be slightly more shocked to learn that I rectified what my absences had done to my grade by "tutoring lower math students after school," by which I mean, I learned to forge all the librarians' signatures and pretended to have tutored kids. Do you see the pattern yet?

It's easy to get caught up in the web of lies that is my life, but where were we? Ah yes, the very best excuse for being late. I had a friend who worked as the first period attendance room TA in high school, and since her job was signing late slips, she heard literally every excuse - valid or ridiculous - in the book. The very best one, as told to me by her: "I'm late because my cat didn't want me to leave."

BAM. Who among us can't relate? Surely we all know the innocent, sad stare of pet that senses its imminent abandonment; surely we can understand the heartbreak that comes with tearing oneself away.  Best excuse ever.

And if your professor doesn't buy it, then you look them in the eye, and say, "You, sir, are a heartless monster." I don't care if it's a lady-professor, call her "Sir" to rub the point home.

Excuses for Police Officers

Well this is a toughie because in my experience...no excuse has ever worked. Then again, I have a notoriously iffy track record with law enforcement, which I do not recommend emulating. One time I got pulled over for speeding...literally right around the corner from my house. When the cop read my address off my license, he looked at the street signs on the corner, then said, "You almost made it..." Dick.

As for being drunk and disorderly and all that comes with it: especially in Bellingham, where the police force doesn't have shit else to do (I mean they do, but Meridian is still crawling with crack heads so clearly they'd rather dole out MIPS - more lucrative and all, HAVE I MENTIONED I HATE COPS), you're almost better off not trying to excuse yourself. If only stupidity and/or just being incredibly pathetic worked...I would be off the hook every time. But my various run-ins with the BPD are a story for another time, and perhaps not for the Internet (o hai future employers, did I mention this is completely fictitious?).

I do have one gem, though, and yes, it's cat-related. The only time I can really say I got caught breaking the law and got off without punishment was a few years ago, when I was pulled over for driving in the carpool lane...apparently alone. When confronted by Officer Whoever-the-fuck, I pointed to the Pet Taxi in the backseat and said, "I'm not alone...I have my cat. I like to think of him as a person. An equal." (All this said completely deadpan.)

Now, to be clear: this didn't work because the cop agreed that pets totally count. I'm pretty sure it worked because he thought I was fucking crazy. My car was littered with McDonald's, mud-caked high heels, half-finished needlepoint (just kidding, maybe) and all other manner of detritus associated with the criminally sad.

But the point is, it worked.

Excuses for parents

Did you go over budget this week? Cat litter is really expensive. Did someone knock over a bag of chips, or a vase of flowers, or just about anything? The cat did it! Are you exhausted and hungover? Mr. Kitty kept me up all night meowing!

And finally, WHO puked on the carpet? Duh. The cat. Cats are awesome excuses for literally everything.

How (Not) to Behave at Concerts

This week, I faced my crippling fear of crowds, sweat, loud noises, drugs, and people enjoying themselves...and saw Justice at the Paramount. All things considered, I'd say it went pretty well. No one had a panic attack and hid in the bathroom. No one got lost, kicked out, or - more likely - ran away. No one's hair was chewed on by the fat man moshing behind them. Are these all things that have happened to me and mine at concerts in the past? ABSOLUTELY.

"Rock" Concerts: The Beginning

I guess it all started at Franz Ferdinand in 2005. I was branching into "alternative rock" at the time, although, confession: I've still never listened to a single song by The Decemberists and YOU CAN'T MAKE ME NOW, IT'S 2012. IRRELEVANT. Anyway. This was my first time in any sort of "mosh pit" environment, and I threw myself into the experience with the fervor and frenzy of a 15 year old girl who has never had anything that exciting happen to her, ever. Also, I was too young to know that I had no natural rhythm and no natural "happy" face. But ignorance is bliss and things were going swimmingly, until I realized the back of my blonde mane was SOAKING, not with sweat but with saliva. The creepy man behind me gave me a smug grin that very clearly said, Yes, I have been chewing on your hair. What are you gonna do about it? 

Nothing. I was 15. I ran away. (This is going to become a pattern...)

For your consideration: how concert environments tend to affect me. Frizzy hair, sweaty as fuck, EXTREMELY UNCOMFORTABLE.

Awkward School Concerts

Sometimes my high school would invite artists to perform at our assemblies for us, I guess so we'd have some incentive to sit through monotonous speeches about "diversity" and insultingly undiverse student elections (pretty sure our ASB president won with a speech about cookies, but I wasn't listening). I cannot overemphasize how awkward it is to be sitting in the bleachers with 400 of your classmates, at 11 in the morning, while some struggling rapper shuffles around the basketball court and tries to get you to "make some noise."

I must have been a sophomore the first time the Blue Scholars came to my school. My best friend and I stayed for about two minutes, then shared a look of confused horror and silently slunk out of the auditorium and down the street to the local bakery. This was the first time I realized that while I might enjoy listening to rap or hip hop in a private atmosphere, I am not prepared to exist comfortably in any setting where I am required to put one arm up in the air and...bob it up and down?? WHAT ARE THESE PEOPLE EVEN DOING OH MY GOD I'M SO WHITE I NEED TO LEAVE.

This. Whatever THIS even is.

So no, sorry, I don't care how much noise you want me to make. I don't care if you're holdin' it down for "real hip hop." It doesn't matter whether or not I like your music - which I actually might - I just don't care enough to humiliate myself with these arm-waving shenanigans.

I made the mistake of seeing Kanye at Bumbershoot the next year, and that was enough to cement the lesson: never again, hip hop show. NEVER AGAIN.

Well, that's a dirty fucking lie.

I totally didn't learn my lesson. Since I've started college, I've opened myself up to the chance of humiliation and awkwardness time and time again. Luckily for me, these nights never really come to fruition.

Exhibit A: Natalie and friends attempt to see Blue Scholars in Seattle. 

While pre-funking at our friend's house in Laurelhurst, I got ridiculously drunk and ran away (told you it was a pattern). I'm one of those extremely considerate drinkers who is able to recognize when they are belligerent/violent/generally dangerous, and can remove themselves from the situation. Unfortunately, my method of "removing myself" is to quietly gather my things, back away slowly, then break into a dead sprint. On this night, I did exactly that. I forgot that I had our tickets in my purse. My friend chased me down the block. Twice. Eventually I did sneak away home, and they went to the concert without me. Probably for the best.

Exhibit B: Natalie and friends attempt to see Tech N9ne in Bellingham.

OK. In my defense, I didn't know what a juggalo was when I first heard Tech N9ne, and "Caribou Lou" was a very popular song. It was also the drink we made that night, in honor of the concert. To this day, I find myself singing the tune of that song in order to remember how to make the drink, so if you see me sort of drunk by myself in a kitchen humming, "151 rum, pineapple juice and Malibu, Caribou, get them all numb...make baby girl-OH HI," then that's why.

Anyway, we made Caribou Lou, and if you haven't had it, then you should, but only on a night where it's imperative that you remember nothing, like a furniture store opening or a family reunion. Anyway, we drank a considerable amount of it in preparation for the concert...and then the tickets were nowhere to be found. We tore the whole house apart to no avail, and six months later, my dad found them in the copy of "Angelology" that I'd borrowed. Angelology. Say that ten times fast. You can't.

Once again, it's probably for the best that we never made it to the concert. Let's be honest, Tech N9ne doesn't exactly attract...my kind of people.

Exhibit C: Natalie and friends attempt to see group from high school in Bellingham

Shortly thereafter, some guys from my high school who rap came to town and we decided to go. Why? Well, put it like this: "Party in the U.S.A." is probably not a very popular song in Russia. So, take that argument, reverse it, and apply it to my situation: sometimes, it's nice to hear people making music about things you can relate to, like YOUR SCHOOL, and YOUR LOCAL PARK YOU ONCE GOT DRUNK IN, and PEOPLE YOU KNOW, even if what they're mostly doing is calling girls from your high school "Diet Coke Slutz." Yes, with a Z. But I digress. We went, and it was sooo bad. I thought the bouncer wrote "ILY" on my hand, so to be polite I said, "I love you, too?" It was actually "114" because I was the 114th person to arrive. Fuck.

Also, it was one of those terrible concerts where people aren't just moshing about and being individually uncoordinated, but are...dancing? Grinding? Ugh. The incredibly inebriated guy I was with, who I knew well enough to look after but not well enough to consider indulging, just sort of clung to my back (I think mostly so he would remain vertical) the whole time. He kept trying to make out with me, which I kept trying to ignore. The result was this, the most strangely placed "hickey" I've ever seen:

Note the "114" on my hand. Hopefully you can understand my confusion.

Bottom line, I have never had a successful concert experience...

...until this week, when the Justice concert went surprisingly well! I didn't lose my ticket or my friends, I politely declined an elderly Mexican's offer of cocaine, and my friends and I carefully maneuvered our way to the front by a combination of elbows and "looking for our little brother." Apparently the people around us referred to us as "those shady girls," but whatever, my friend had a fucking DAISY CHAIN on her head, how is that shady? 

Just two wholesome girls, arriving late and trying to sneak closer to the stage. 

By any means necessary.

Will I let this sudden success go to my head, and proceed on a haphazard, thrill-seeking concert spree? Probably not, because to be honest, most of the artists I would pay good money to see are dead or retired, and I am not down with this hologram shit. Also, please see the very beginning of this post for my feelings re: crowds, loud noise, sweat, drugs, and people enjoying themselves. 

But this experience did prove that even someone like me can just chill the fuck out for one night a year and give in to all the things they hate and maybe enjoy themselves. After writing that sentence, I feel very strongly that it could be used as a persuasive argument for a lot of things, so if that's what you're thinking, I said, No butt stuff.

(P.S. This is no longer a blog for a class so I can make butt jokes, right? Right.)

How (Not) to Make Friends in Class

I'm baaack! As promised, I will be continuing this blog, although the class that originally inspired it is now over. For the three people still reading, thank you and also, you're welcome.

Already I'm more than three weeks into Spring Quarter, and after a not-so-relaxing Spring Break, this actually feels like a relief. You can picture me sunning myself on a beach somewhere for a week if that makes you feel better, but in reality, I was doing the following:

• moving apartments: HOLY SHIT I HAVE SO MUCH SHIT. My dad had to carry my monstrosity of a TV and afterwards looked at me and said, "I have never regretted being a father as much as I did in these past two minutes." 
• turning 22: compared to last year's birthday, this year, while still a shitshow, was a remarkably classy and refined affair. Did I throw up on my friend's white carpet? Maybe. Did I flirt with a multitude of ugly strangers? Perhaps. Did I leave another friend a series of increasing racist (but playful-racist) messages? I don't know, you tell me
• eventually making my way down to Cali and NOT getting kicked out of Disneyland this time! Hallelujah!
• trying to sell various things on Craigslist and inadvertently falling prey to various scams: I had to get quite stern with one "Andre" who needed his money order sent to "London." Also I'm still hoping one day I'll see something about myself in the "missed connections" section - every time I see "red head" my heart leaps, but then the rest of the sentence is always "walking her cute dog" or "dancing so sexy at Rumours," never anything that I might actually have been doing, like, "buying Haggen's entire supply of Cheetos" or "glaring at high schoolers while blasting Odd Future and looking uncharacteristically menacing." 

Funny story, I did actually go to Rumours for the second time ever, but my "party" was asked to leave when my guy friends decided stomping on a shattered shot glass and spraying everyone in the vicinity with broken glass shards was the best way to take the night up a notch. I never said I kept sophisticated company.

Anyway. So here I am, all settled in my brand new apartment, fresh notebooks, new class schedule, ready to resume a slightly altered version of the same old routine. Which, obviously, includes blogging. For your consideration...

How (Not) to Make Friends in Class

Every time my parents complain about my friends and encourage me to make some new ones, which is often and ongoing, they always emphasize that I should be making friends in CLASS. Every time I reach the beginning of a new quarter, like this one, they remind me how nice it would be for me to MAKE NEW FRIENDS...in CLASS.

I understand the concept...in theory. But clearly, I've yet to master it. One time, after a riveting Film in Soviet Russia lecture, I got asked to "watch the basketball game"...but as it turns out, he didn't wanna be my friend. Other than that, I have little to show for the past four years of college life. So, yeah, I don't think I've made a single legitimate friend in class.

This isn't relevant, but I just spent a really long time looking at college memes, and for the record, this guy is who I would choose to be friends with. If I could.

1. Dorm Life

I think that living in the dorms as a freshman is supposed to be some sort of springboard for making friends. Well, friends, I didn't go to Western my freshman year. I went to Scripps College FOR WOMEN in Claremont, California. I guess I must have thought, "Oh, I get along with girls so much better than boys, I'll go to a girl's school and it'll be like one big fun girls' night out!" Well, IT WASN'T LIKE THAT AT ALL. I got assigned to the socially awkward dorm (technically it was the "medical" dorm, but you get the idea) and made...a lot of enemies. The other (much older) head cases were not ready for my drunken just-got-to-college!!1!11!! shenanigans.

By the time I transferred to Western, I had no interest in being (I imagined) the only non-freshman in the dorms. So yeah, I missed that boat. And no, I don't regret it. You know what's great about NOT living in the dorm? Being able to get drunk. Being able to smoke. Being able to have people over. Being able to play loud music. Being able to have sex without making your roommate sleep on the common room couch. And so on. At least, that's the logic I used on my parents when they told me to live in the dorms and "make new friends." They weren't that impressed, but it worked.

2. Giant Lectures

My first 200+ person lecture was a bit of a rude awakening. There is no way to make friends in these class. Every time I have gone to one, which admittedly is only on test days, I don't even RECOGNIZE any of the people sitting near me, like from one class (test) to another. How the fuck would I ever make friends with any of them? I wouldn't. I haven't. I won't.

I once had an Art History class with two of my good friends and didn't realize it until a few months later. Whoops.

3. Regular-size classes

Most of my classes in my sophomore and junior years were neither too large nor too small; around 60 people, typically. In this size of class, not only can you choose to sit near the same people on a regular basis, but professors will usually demand lots of "small group work," giving you a chance to interact further with those seated closest to yourself. Keeping this in mind, it's important to choose your seat wisely on the first day of class: sit next to people who remind you of people you already know.

I've tried to befriend my group members before, and needless to say, it's rarely gone well. I might seem talkative and confident on this blog, but for those of you who had a class with me, do you remember all my scintillating contributions to group discussion? No, you don't, because I didn't make any. I have an enormous fear of interrupting someone in a forum where there are no raised hands. I also have an enormous fear of: not coughing right before I speak so my voice doesn't come out croaky, coughing casually before speaking and accidentally coughing up phlegm, casually wiping phlegm somewhere and having someone notice...OK, I just don't talk in class. The end. 

4. Small classes

When I went to Scripps, my classes typically had around 12 to 20 people. This was an environment in which I should have been able to make plenty of friends. And I almost did, at least in my Shakespeare class...until, The Incident - which, by the way, inspired my "How (Not) to Fart in Class" post. Need I say more?

As I creep towards graduation (and trust me, I'm creeping), many of my upper-level English classes are in the 20-something range. I keep seeing the same people over and over again, and it should follow that I might be able to befriend one or two of them. And it's true: you get to know the people around you. You do workshops, and small groups, with many of them, repeatedly.

And yet, this still doesn't work out for me. I always say the wrong thing in workshop (I compared a guy's short story to Avatar, because I REALLY LIKED THAT MOVIE...apparently no one else did). Small groups tend to give me a really light fraction of the work load, because they assume I am anti-social and untrustworthy. And admittedly, I perpetuate their assumptions, because I'm lazy. One time, my group leader asked me if I could cover all of _____, and I looked at him and said, "Oooh, better not, I'm really stupid." Guess what? IT WORKED. He shuffled around awkwardly and finally said, "OK, well...you can...draw the flag...or something." 

Joke's on you, bitch. 

Makin' friends.

How (Not) to Have Girls Night Out

So it's one of THOSE nights. Girls Night.

Maybe one of your girls just got dumped. Maybe she just got promoted. Maybe you're all back in town again for the first time in a while. Maybe you just don't know of anything else going on, so the classiest way to say, "We only hang out with each other!!!" is to say, "You know what we need, ladies?" Say it with me: "GIRLS NIGHT!!!"

(By the way, my friends and I never, EVER refer to ourselves/each other as "ladies." We believe in honesty. So when I use that most annoying of words, "ladies," I am making fun of other girls exactly like myself EXCEPT NOT BECAUSE ME AND MY FRIENDS ARE BETTER THAN THEM.)

For whatever reason, it's been declared a Girls Night Out. First of all, you need to know who you're dealing with. Categorized as best I know how, here are a few of the girls that SHOULD be in every friend group.

The Angry Drunk

Sweet sorority girl/former cheerleader by day...dangerous assailant by night! Don't let those shimmering golden locks deceive you. This girl will punch a 300 pound man in the face without blinking one perfectly-mascara'd eye. She's 5'9" and her boyfriend is even taller, she hates being hit on, and if you dare to offer to buy her a drink, one look from this girl will make you wish had never been born. She's the perfect girl to have your back when you're out, but don't ever get into a drunk argument with her or she will annihilate you, then laugh about it over chocolate chip pancakes the next morning.

The Crazy Drunk

...who is going to kill me for choosing a photo with duckface. Sorry, Kat.

You know this girl. Or maybe you don't. Well, this girl eats frat boys for breakfast. She can out-drink, out-last, and out-party every single person you know. She has no bedtime, because evil never sleeps. She doesn't consider it a "bender" until it's been more than two weeks. Anyone who doesn't finish their fifth by the end of the night is never again welcome in her presence. They have to physically drag her away from keg stands, because if left unchecked, she might drink the whole thing. If there's a bar in town you're no longer welcome in, you can thank her. She is feared and admired. She even has a facebook group dedicated to her drinking.

The Socially Awkward Drunk

This is the girl that all your guy friends think is pretty hot, but when they ask you if they have a shot with her, you always say, "...noooo." When they ask why, you can't explain. Her sexuality is ambiguous, her motives unclear. She only drinks wine, and never from glasses. If she knows a picture is about to be taken, she makes the weirdest face possible to alarm the photographer. Her favorite bar is a dive bar, and her favorite kind of man is an old, crazy man. At parties, she seeks out the company of the fringe folk: someone's little brother, a homeless person who wandered in, and if there are pets present, she will find them and spend all night talking to them.

The Slutty Drunk

It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it, and all those other bitches have dumb boyfriends. This is the girl who carries pajamas in her purse. This is the girl you can regularly pass your boyfriend's annoying friends off on. This is the girl about whom you can tell guys, "Uhh I don't know, you probably have a shot with her...are you gonna buy us alcohol or not?" Downside: eventually she will have hooked up with or offended (or, more likely, both) every guy of your acquaintance, which makes selecting your birthday weekend get-away guest list a whooole lot harder (sorry again, Kat). This is also the girl you end up rescuing a lot of Sunday mornings. C'est la vie.

OK, now we've got our players. What can you expect when you throw such a mix of crazies into a place together, stir in some booze, and call it a "Girls Night?" 

Disaster. From the moment this many bossy drunk girls are in the same environment, discord is bound to follow. They won't be able to agree on what to drink; who has to pay for chaser; which bars to go to (If you say Fremont one more time, Anna...!); who should call the cab; Oh my God NO ONE CALLED A CAB?? They will leave the house two hours later than they meant to, never in the outfits they started pre-funking in.

Oh yes, it's all fun and games now. Look at our silly leis!

Laughter. The loud, drunk kind. The we're-making-dumb-faces-in-our-booth-go-away kind. The kind that really should repel (or at least give fair warning to) the opposite sex, but instead seems to send out some kind of "vulnerable female" bat sonar that only assholes can hear. Or, you know, everyone in the bar can hear, because it's loud and obnoxious. 

Food. The greasy, cheap, probably-spit-in kind. "Should we order fries?" "No, I'm fat, I don't want fries." HAH! Two hours later, a graveyard of empty plates will cover their table. Oh well, at least we're getting diabetes together!

Tears. Always tears. "I didn't mean you LOOK fat, I just said that if you THINK you're fat, WHY did you eat all the fries?" "YOU DO THINK I'M FAT, I KNEW IT!" "No. Oh my God. NO! No. Listen to me, listen to me- you're not listening, I think you're sooo special-" "Really?" ...until a guy nearby finally yells, "ARE YOU GONNA KISS?" and then the really special sentimental moment is ruined.

Boys. There's no such thing as a Girls Night. Eventually, the girls with boyfriends will make their boyfriends come get them. Those without will do what they always planned on doing: sidling up to a nearby male and saying, "Oh my gosssh, my friends are sooo crazy!"

"Yeah," he says, laughing.

That's when you give 'em your most winsome, wasted smile, and say, "You wanna go somewhere...quieter?"

Is it Girls Night Out? Then trust me, they will.

So thank you, ladies, for ensuring that no Girls Night ever, EVER goes as planned.

How (Not) to Eat Food in Class

Disclaimer: Slightly higher level of vulgarity in this post, my bad!

When I decided to write a blog based on my own awkward experiences, it's logical to assume that I was relatively confident in my having an awful lot of awkward experiences from which to draw. Here's the conversation that convinced me...

(friend opens a bag of Cheetos)

Me: "OH MY GOD Cheetos!" (side note: I really, really love Cheetos) "Have I ever told you my awkward Cheetos story??"

Friend: "No - wait. Dear GOD, do you have an awkward story about EVERYTHING?"

Me: "Yes."

No. Really. I LOVE Cheetos.

The awkward Cheetos story happened on a plane back from California. I settled into my window seat and dove right into my freshly-purchased bag of Cheetos. Then the hottest guy in the entire world sat down next to me. This never, EVER happens to me on planes. Without fail, I have spent every other flight of my entire life next to someone who is either morbidly obese or nursing their invariably loud baby. I took one look at the sexy dude whose thigh would be ever-so-slightly brushing mine for the next three hours, and hid the Cheetos under the seat.

I didn't do it because eating Cheetos is something to be ashamed of: IT ISN'T, and don't let ANYONE tell you otherwise. When I see someone eating Cheetos, I am 95% more likely to respect them as an individual. The problem is the infamous orange Cheeto dust, which my left hand was now sufficiently coated in.

I'd like to think I looked a little more charming than this guy, but let's be honest.

I didn't have a napkin, obviously, because who the fuck carries napkins with them, middle-aged suburban mothers? I didn't have anything to wipe my hand on. I sure as shit couldn't follow my ORIGINAL dust-disposal plan, which was to finish the bag, then slowly, sickeningly, lick every granule of dust from each of my fingers (and my palm, I get very excited about Cheetos and end up grabbing whole handfuls).

At this point in the story, my friend, a guy, asked, "Couldn't you have licked your fingers...like...seductively?"

I gave him A Look, to remind him who the fuck he was talking to, and he quickly back-tracked. There are very few things I am capable of doing "seductively" with a straight face, and that includes sex. It certainly includes licking up Cheeto dust. 

In the end, I spent the first hour of the flight with my hand hidden below my seat. Then I curled it up in my sweatshirt sleeve and awkwardly pushed past Hot Guy to "use the restroom." I know you're wondering, which way would an awkward person like me exit - by shoving my crotch or my butt in his face? I went with crotch, knowing full well how likely it was that I had sat in something weird earlier that day. If my picture isn't in the dictionary next to "classy," then I don't know why not.

Aw, thanks Dwight. Now I remember. 

That was a longer story than I intended, but the point is this: eating in public can be really awkward! Even eating in front of those you know can be brutal - once my dad looked at me across the breakfast table and said, mid-way through my third bowl of Lucky Charms, "Dear God, do you eat like that in public??" - but in front of near strangers, in a quiet, studious environment? It's the absolute worst.

So here are some rules about eating in class:

Don't eat Cheetos in class! I know it's hard, and that's all you really want, but THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT THE DUST! Some people might say, Why don't you grab a napkin, to which I say, Shut up, have you never heard of pants?

NO, YOU CAN NOT HAS, NATALIE.

Don't eat any kind of chips in class! Because the bag rustles and crinkles for like 30 seconds after you stick your greasy paw into it and I can't take much more of that noise. Don't eat anything that crunches or rattles, or else you'll get yelled at by your Shakespeare teacher like I did, and OH MY GOD HER EYES WILL BURN YOUR SOUL.

Don't eat sushi in class! First of all, it smells like SHIT. I'm from Seattle and I've smelled enough damn fish to last me a lifetime. Don't eat anything that forces you to get all fancy with the chopsticks, because you ARE white, you WILL drop something, and I WILL laugh at you.

Don't eat salads in class! I mean, it's not like you're gonna be able to evenly distribute the dressing within that flimsy plastic box, anyway. You're just gonna be digging around for croutons the whole time, let's not kid ourselves. And when you spill dressing on your boob, I won't be the one to uncomfortably point it out, either.

Don't eat any food that smells good in class! Because I'm fucking hungry, you asshole! I'm hungry from all this NOT EATING.

The only kind of food I'm OK with you eating in class: a burrito, because it's silent, it doesn't smell, and there is NO WAY you will successfully consume the whole thing without dropping lettuce or dripping sour cream on yourself at LEAST once. Then, I will laugh. Also, burritos are amazing, and I can't bring myself to knowingly deprive another person of that joy.

As if you needed more proof of how great burritos are.

That being said, you have my permission to shove as much burrito in your mouth as you possibly can. Just know that you will look ridiculous doing it, but as it in no way disturbs me and only contributes to my personal enjoyment...I won't say a damn thing. 

How (Not) to Impress Your Parents

You get two posts today, because I forgot to post earlier in the week! This one doesn't have any pictures. Sorry.

Congratulations, your parents are coming to visit! Are you everything they ever hoped their child would be? Are you living up to each and every one of their highest expectations, perhaps even surpassing their wildest dreams? No? Me neither. Here's how to keep to keep them happy and prolong that inevitable moment of financial independence. (Note: If you're already financially independent, good for you! But you might still want to try to impress them, yes?)

How to Prepare for the Visit

The last time I cleaned my apartment, it A. took six hours and B. left me so sore I could hardly stand up straight. This should serve as adequate testament both to the state of the residence pre-cleaning (so bad, guys) and my physical fitness (arguably worse). I could have taken “before” pictures, but even I have some capacity for shame. My landlady once told me I was “living in squalor," but what does she know? I'll throw out that cheese when I'm done with it, OK?

When your parents are coming, you should make an effort to clean, or rather, hide the squalor. Some bare-minimum steps to take, from the Queen of Bare Minimum:

1. Hide all the dirty dishes in the oven. Can't smell 'em in there!

2. Pick up every piece of clothing on the floor and put it in the washing machine.

3. Only thing you really need to wash: your sheets, you cretin!

4. Throw away all the take-out containers and McDonald's bags around your bed.

5. MAKE SURE to hide everything offensive: empty the ashtray, dispose of all bottles, and conceal anything indicative of premarital sex.

How to Act and Look like the Person They Think You Are

Don't be hungover! Are you hungover? Don't look hungover! Put concealer on those dark circles (guys, you could potentially do this, too), change into a respectable outfit, brush your hair and your teeth, and re-apply deodorant and/or scent of choice. 

Turn your phone on vibrate so your mom doesn't raise her eyebrows when your ringtone is "I Kissed A Girl" (shut up). Try very hard not to swear too much. Don't let them linger around your place; suggest a nice meal somewhere nearby, then claim you have "sooo much work to do" so you can graciously return home after lunch or dinner. 

How to Edit Your Life in Conversation

If you have a 100% open and honest relationship with your parents, then once again, good for you! This is something I dream of one day having, and am creeping towards as I grow steadily older and their expectations sink steadily lower. I don't like lying to my parents, but if I answered every one of their questions with perfect honesty, who would pay my rent? Don't say me. Please, please don't say me.

While you're at the aforementioned meal, you will probably be subject to some or all of the following lifestyle questions. There's a big difference between what you could say, and what you should say. Some examples:

Question: "How is school going?"

Honest Answer: "How are my NOVELS going? I'm so glad you asked, this week I pulled two all-nighters, made some real breakthroughs, then went online and realized everything I've ever written has already been written. Then I had a creative meltdown, chugged 15 hours worth of energy, and didn't study for my Psych test. Whatever, fuck a GPA, I don't need to go to grad school OH WAIT I TOTALLY DO."

Parent Answer: "It's going really well!"

Question: "Are you dating anyone?"

Honest Answer: "If you mean 'Am I sleeping with anyone,' then yes! But you will never, ever meet them because you would absolutely hate them!"

Parent Answer: "I really don't have time to date, I'm just too focused on my future right now."

Question: "What have you been up to for fun these days?"

Honest Answer: "Gettin' drunk."

Parent Answer: "Oh, you know, taking it pretty easy, mostly reading those books you leant me and staying in. I'm so over all my old habits and mistakes. I've really matured."

Question: "When are you graduating?"

Honest Answer: "Whenever you stop paying for school."

Parent Answer: "So soon! I really only have a few more credits left! Tell Grandma!"

Question: "Have you made any more plans for after you graduate?"

Honest Answer: "YOU'VE NEVER SUPPORTED MY DREEEEAMS."

Parent Answer: "Looking at grad schools, obviously scoping out jobs so I don't have to move back in with you."

Question: "Will you ever make any money from writing?"

Honest Answer: "Well, I wrote two papers for my friends last week and then they paid for all my drinks, so YOU TELL ME."

Parent Answer: "...probably not. Can I move back in?"

OK, I lied, here's one picture...

For your consideration: A Family Portrait in our matching Christmas pants.

My dad made us sit like this and told us to "pretend we were in North Korea."

Now you see why I can't move back in.

How (Not) to Maintain Your Ride

Starting right after your fifteenth birthday, having a car can become a powerful thing. I still remember the stresses of perfecting backing around the corner (which I've used twice since 2006), the thrill of never again having to beg a parent for a ride, and the drama that surrounded my daily fight for a parking spot at school. Ever since my grandmother's 2003 Subaru Forester was passed down to me (thanks for getting too old to drive, Grandma! You rock!), I've been obsessed with driving, and the freedom that my own vehicle has always represented. Believe it or not, when I was 16, that Subaru made me the shit, as far as I was concerned.

It would be years until I realized that Subarus are universally acknowledged to be the cars of lesbians and soccer moms, and that most people who met me would refer to it as the "Lezbaru." You know what? I can live with that.

I have a better name for my car: Steve. Steve the Subaru. I call him Steve because of this little face I can make out of his control panel.

Doesn't he just look like a Steve?

Over the years, I have not been as kind to Steve as one might wish. I frequently am so low in funds that Steve very nearly runs out of gas. The "oil" and "check engine" lights are more like "decorative displays" than actual warning signs. And Steve's number one purpose is that of trash can.

Steve, on a clean day.

All of my friends are well aware, at this point, how obsessed I am with driving. I hate being in the passenger seat, not just because most of my friends are notoriously dangerous drivers (no offense, ladies), but because I can't stand the lack of control. I need my music, I need my diet coke in its specific cup holder, and I need to be able to chain smoke at will.

So any time we're driving anywhere, I will always, always volunteer - nay, fight tooth and nail! - to be the driver. I stopped asking for gas money long ago, recognizing that my high budget for gas was entirely of my own making.

As a result, Steve has taken my friends and I to McDonald's probably thousands of times. Steve has served as the conference room for every significant argument, breakdown, or counseling session to take place in my friend group. Steve has driven us on every road trip, major or minor. Most of my memories, good and bad, have been in Steve. That sounds wrong, but I don't care. I love Steve. I am almost always inside Steve. You can take that however you want.

So imagine my repeated horror when, over and over again these past two years, every single part of Steve has broken down at one point or another.

The window motors had to be replaced, probably because of how often I roll them up and down based on lighting or smoking cigarettes. The tires are perpetually bald, probably because of my tendency to "feel out" the location of the curb when parking. The heat was non-existent for six straight months, and OK, I didn't get that one fixed immediately because I like it cold and my friends always crank it when I'm not looking, but finally it snowed and I had no choice. The wiring and audio is consistently faulty, probably because I let my ex-boyfriend tinker with it one time too many. The brakes; the brake pads; the "gaskets" and "valves"; the "alignment"; the "radiator hose"; the "belts" and the "coolant"; the "power steering rack"; you name it, it's broken in the last 24 months.

Note the "quotes," because frankly, I don't know what half that shit means.

Going in to the service station is always a terrible experience, and that's really what I'm getting at. Every time I take Steve in for ONE measly little problem, like, I don't know, "It won't start" or "Every time I brake going downhill it makes this horrible grinding noise like I'm running over a thousand iron squirrels," I get a call from the garage with literally TWENTY things that "need" fixing.

I try to ask sly questions, like, "Welllll do I really need to replace that...part today? Like, is it life or death?" To these, I get wishy-washy repsonses that all end with, "...eventually it could _____ and you will explode and die." Basically, every problem could be a life-or-death one.

The truth, I suspect, is that the service technicians recognize that I am a complete idiot who has no idea what they're talking about and could potentially get charged hundreds more dollars than necessary without noticing. They are 100% correct.

Unfortunately for them, (and fortunately for me), it is not I who pays for Steve's many repairs. So when I received that dreadful phone call on Tuesday afternoon, I did what I always do when I feel sure that I am being walked all over, what any mature 21 year old would do: I called my mom.

This, by the way, is my mom, and a woman who inspires fear wherever she goes.

Sigh...my hero.

In conclusion, I am probably not fit to own and drive a vehicle. My insurance company certainly doesn't think so. Maintaining said vehicle is clearly not my strong suit. One day, I hope to be savvy (or at least scary) enough to not jump in terror every time my auto shop calls me...but for now, Steve and I will have to limp along, much as we always have. 

I'm so sorry, Steve. You deserve a much better Lesbian Soccer Mom than I.