I am the Queen of awkward conversation.
After four years of returning home for holiday breaks, I’ve perfected the art of a plastered smile, a fake laugh and an unnoticeable escape.
As a result, I’ve never held the “how’s college/what’s your major/what are you doing now” conversation for longer than 15 minutes.
Until Wednesday night.
The night before Thanksgiving, anyone who ever graduated from my high school crams into my local bar like sardines and pretends to care about the updated status of everyone else’s lives.
I begrudging attended and thought that, by standing in the corner, my four friends and I would be able to remain hidden while still having a full view of the bar.
I was wrong.
Within seconds I had been targeted.
“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeey!!!!!!!!!” A blond barbie-doll that I’d known in high school screeched.
She looked exactaly the same as she did when we graduated. Stick thin, bleach blond hair, perfect teeth. And was just as interesting.
“So, do you know how much cheaper it is to get your hair done on The Cape?”
For those who don’t speak snob, The Cape, is Cape Cod — her family has a house there. Of course.
“I totally got this jacket a T.J. Maxx. For like 20 bucks. I mean, how cheap is that?”
Well, I consider any form of clothes shopping a luxury, so…no, that’s not that cheap.
“I totally had a great internship at Johnson and Johnson this summer.”
Newsflash: we live five minutes from J&J headquarters. A lot of people have internships there.
And on and on it went. For 45 minutes! I couldn’t escape. I was stuck.
Long story short, because, trust me, I don’t want to put you through the same torture, I didn’t need to know her whole life story.
After that, the “how’s college/what’s your major/what are you doing now” conversation seemed like music to my ears.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Fly, Turkey
Rather than talk about what I did this weekend, which is really just more of the same, I would like to revel in the fact that Turkey Day is in five days!!!!
To me, Thanksgiving means a number of different things:
1) It means returning to a civilized state — New Jersey, where only the strong survive.
2) It means eating my body weight in turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and my aunt’s famous pepperoni rolls.
3) It means seeing my best friends from home, go to our local bar and reminding ourselves how much cooler college is.
4) It means watching the Macys’s Thanksgiving Day parade, then crossing the Hudson to spend Turkey Day with my gigantic Irish/Italian family in New York, the best city in the world.
And although the cheesy-holiday-song season is most commonly associated with Christmas and Hanukkah, I would like to share a doozie of a Thanksgiving song — one that is just begging to become a household favorite — in an attempt to promote this often overlooked holiday song market.
Please, share this soon-to-be holiday favorite with every small child you know.
“Fly, Turkey”
By Geof Johnson
There’s a man named Farmer Brown,
He’s got the fattest turkey around.
He’s been feeding that turkey well,
To fatten him up for a Thanksgiving meal.
Mrs. Brown said, "Honey dear,
Let’s eat that big bird this year.
Go and fetch your brand new axe,
Take that turkey ‘round the back."
Fly turkey, fly real fast,
Today is going to be your last.
Flap your wings and get away,
Farmer’s going to eat you today.
Fly turkey, up in a tree,
Where the farmer cannot see.
Fly turkey, don’t make a sound,
Get away from Farmer Brown.
Mr. Brown said, "I’m with you,
I’d like to eat that turkey too."
Put his hat upon his head,
Walked out to the old tool shed.
Fly turkey, fly real fast,
Today is going to be your last.
Flap your wings and get away,
Farmer’s going to eat you today.
Fly turkey, up in a tree,
Where the farmer cannot see.
Fly turkey, don’t make a sound,
Get away from Farmer Brown.
Mr. Brown picked up his axe,
And gave a board a few good whacks.
Ground it sharp on the grinding stone,
Polished it until it shone.
Fly turkey, fly real fast,
Today is going to be your last.
Flap your wings and get away,
Farmer’s going to eat you today.
Fly turkey, up in a tree,
Where the farmer cannot see.
Fly turkey, don’t make a sound,
Get away from Farmer Brown.
Mr. Brown looked for the bird,
But not a gobble could be heard.
Where could that old turkey be?
He’s a’hidin’ in a tree!
Fly turkey, fly real fast,
Today is going to be your last.
Flap your wings and get away,
Farmer’s going to eat you today.
Fly turkey, up in a tree,
Where the farmer cannot see.
Fly turkey, don’t make a sound,
Get away from Farmer Brown.
To me, Thanksgiving means a number of different things:
1) It means returning to a civilized state — New Jersey, where only the strong survive.
2) It means eating my body weight in turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and my aunt’s famous pepperoni rolls.
3) It means seeing my best friends from home, go to our local bar and reminding ourselves how much cooler college is.
4) It means watching the Macys’s Thanksgiving Day parade, then crossing the Hudson to spend Turkey Day with my gigantic Irish/Italian family in New York, the best city in the world.
And although the cheesy-holiday-song season is most commonly associated with Christmas and Hanukkah, I would like to share a doozie of a Thanksgiving song — one that is just begging to become a household favorite — in an attempt to promote this often overlooked holiday song market.
Please, share this soon-to-be holiday favorite with every small child you know.
“Fly, Turkey”
By Geof Johnson
There’s a man named Farmer Brown,
He’s got the fattest turkey around.
He’s been feeding that turkey well,
To fatten him up for a Thanksgiving meal.
Mrs. Brown said, "Honey dear,
Let’s eat that big bird this year.
Go and fetch your brand new axe,
Take that turkey ‘round the back."
Fly turkey, fly real fast,
Today is going to be your last.
Flap your wings and get away,
Farmer’s going to eat you today.
Fly turkey, up in a tree,
Where the farmer cannot see.
Fly turkey, don’t make a sound,
Get away from Farmer Brown.
Mr. Brown said, "I’m with you,
I’d like to eat that turkey too."
Put his hat upon his head,
Walked out to the old tool shed.
Fly turkey, fly real fast,
Today is going to be your last.
Flap your wings and get away,
Farmer’s going to eat you today.
Fly turkey, up in a tree,
Where the farmer cannot see.
Fly turkey, don’t make a sound,
Get away from Farmer Brown.
Mr. Brown picked up his axe,
And gave a board a few good whacks.
Ground it sharp on the grinding stone,
Polished it until it shone.
Fly turkey, fly real fast,
Today is going to be your last.
Flap your wings and get away,
Farmer’s going to eat you today.
Fly turkey, up in a tree,
Where the farmer cannot see.
Fly turkey, don’t make a sound,
Get away from Farmer Brown.
Mr. Brown looked for the bird,
But not a gobble could be heard.
Where could that old turkey be?
He’s a’hidin’ in a tree!
Fly turkey, fly real fast,
Today is going to be your last.
Flap your wings and get away,
Farmer’s going to eat you today.
Fly turkey, up in a tree,
Where the farmer cannot see.
Fly turkey, don’t make a sound,
Get away from Farmer Brown.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Don't mess with the best, cuz the best don't mess
There are two rules to going on a hayride:
1) Don’t expect actual bales of hay.
2) Bring your own keg.
On Friday night, the nerdy Collegian kids ventured out into the real world and took a hayride to the middle of nowhere. Really nowhere. Like, “I’m going to kill you in the woods with a chainsaw” kind of nowhere.
Now, by hayride, I actually mean a tractor pulling a wooden cart, lined with hay pieces. It took us on a five-minute ride to a campsite where banjo-picking music played over the loudspeakers. The campsite was well set up, with three fire pits, plenty of room to roam and burgers that tasted like a juicy piece of heaven.
However, because of the poor weather lately, the site was double booked, and after about two hours of alone-in-the-woods time, we were forced to share our hidden-haven with a group wearing strange letters. I don’t know who exactly they were — I don’t read greek.
Apparently, they didn’t have the same foresight as we did and only brought a few six-packs. Their eyes turned to slits as they eyed our two kegs; they were like animals circling their prey. Though Penn State normally operates on a “the more, the merrier” policy, all rules are different in the wild.
The battle had begun.
We immediately assumed our battle positions. We were on the defense, backs to the kegs, someone on all sides. The intruders began to circle, eyes darting, searching for an opening, a weakness that would lead them to victory.
They wanted our beer.
Some wandered over to our campfire pretending to look for friends.
“Oh, I was just looking for so-and-so”
Or, “Oh wait, this isn’t my group?”
When that didn’t work, some lashed out with incredibly whitty insults.
“You guys are fat and dorks.”
We retorted by calling a white-shirted girl a “cow” and telling a fur-collared guy he stepped right out of “Growing up Gotti.”
Good one.
But in the end, we prevailed. We left with two kegs, no beer lost, no casualties.
Maybe we are dorks — but we’re dorks with beer.
1) Don’t expect actual bales of hay.
2) Bring your own keg.
On Friday night, the nerdy Collegian kids ventured out into the real world and took a hayride to the middle of nowhere. Really nowhere. Like, “I’m going to kill you in the woods with a chainsaw” kind of nowhere.
Now, by hayride, I actually mean a tractor pulling a wooden cart, lined with hay pieces. It took us on a five-minute ride to a campsite where banjo-picking music played over the loudspeakers. The campsite was well set up, with three fire pits, plenty of room to roam and burgers that tasted like a juicy piece of heaven.
However, because of the poor weather lately, the site was double booked, and after about two hours of alone-in-the-woods time, we were forced to share our hidden-haven with a group wearing strange letters. I don’t know who exactly they were — I don’t read greek.
Apparently, they didn’t have the same foresight as we did and only brought a few six-packs. Their eyes turned to slits as they eyed our two kegs; they were like animals circling their prey. Though Penn State normally operates on a “the more, the merrier” policy, all rules are different in the wild.
The battle had begun.
We immediately assumed our battle positions. We were on the defense, backs to the kegs, someone on all sides. The intruders began to circle, eyes darting, searching for an opening, a weakness that would lead them to victory.
They wanted our beer.
Some wandered over to our campfire pretending to look for friends.
“Oh, I was just looking for so-and-so”
Or, “Oh wait, this isn’t my group?”
When that didn’t work, some lashed out with incredibly whitty insults.
“You guys are fat and dorks.”
We retorted by calling a white-shirted girl a “cow” and telling a fur-collared guy he stepped right out of “Growing up Gotti.”
Good one.
But in the end, we prevailed. We left with two kegs, no beer lost, no casualties.
Maybe we are dorks — but we’re dorks with beer.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Oh to be young again....
When I walked through the door of my guy friends’ apartment Friday night, I was intrigued to find, not my friends, as I’d expected, but a bevy of scantily-clad freshman girls — or at least so I’d thought.
I soon found out that only some of them were freshman. The others were seniors — in high school.
They were visiting one of the boys who lived in the apartment. The make-up they’d used to cake their face and the combs they’d used to tease their hair were strewn about the bedrooms. They stood in packs around the living room — two on each end of the beer pong table, a few by the TV, three or four crowding around the jungle juice and a best friend comforting her crying counterpart in the kitchen.
They’d taken over.
This scene, of course, did not phase my guy friends in the least. On the contrary, it was just another step in the process every guy goes through when becoming a “real college guy.” First, they get their own apartment. With this apartment comes a real refrigerator. Now, they have a normal sized fridge to store their beer in. Second, they spend massive amounts of money on a sound/TV system for the living room — which, combined with the homemade beer pong table, will serve as the only decoration in the entire apartment. Then they have parties with lots of younger girls who are impressed with their apartment, beer, stereo and table. One of the male inhabitants of the party was so far along n this process that he attended the party in plaid pajama pants normally reserved for Christmas morning. He’s such a “real college guy” that he doesn’t even have to wear real pants.
My friends and I, the older, more mature seniors in college, spent most of the night around the coffee table, playing sophisticated games like horse race and kings. The younger high school girls continued to gather in clumps, only interacting with us to drunkenly ask if we also thought high school girls were b---hes. Seeing as how some of them were in high school four months ago, I told them I trusted their judgment.
About three hours after my arrival, the older crowd found themselves suddenly alone. Not only was it far past the high schooler’s bed times, but also far past their limit and a few had curled up on the bathroom floor.
Walking home that night, I was more than happy to be four years past that point and going back to a decorated apartment with a fridge filled with real food.
I soon found out that only some of them were freshman. The others were seniors — in high school.
They were visiting one of the boys who lived in the apartment. The make-up they’d used to cake their face and the combs they’d used to tease their hair were strewn about the bedrooms. They stood in packs around the living room — two on each end of the beer pong table, a few by the TV, three or four crowding around the jungle juice and a best friend comforting her crying counterpart in the kitchen.
They’d taken over.
This scene, of course, did not phase my guy friends in the least. On the contrary, it was just another step in the process every guy goes through when becoming a “real college guy.” First, they get their own apartment. With this apartment comes a real refrigerator. Now, they have a normal sized fridge to store their beer in. Second, they spend massive amounts of money on a sound/TV system for the living room — which, combined with the homemade beer pong table, will serve as the only decoration in the entire apartment. Then they have parties with lots of younger girls who are impressed with their apartment, beer, stereo and table. One of the male inhabitants of the party was so far along n this process that he attended the party in plaid pajama pants normally reserved for Christmas morning. He’s such a “real college guy” that he doesn’t even have to wear real pants.
My friends and I, the older, more mature seniors in college, spent most of the night around the coffee table, playing sophisticated games like horse race and kings. The younger high school girls continued to gather in clumps, only interacting with us to drunkenly ask if we also thought high school girls were b---hes. Seeing as how some of them were in high school four months ago, I told them I trusted their judgment.
About three hours after my arrival, the older crowd found themselves suddenly alone. Not only was it far past the high schooler’s bed times, but also far past their limit and a few had curled up on the bathroom floor.
Walking home that night, I was more than happy to be four years past that point and going back to a decorated apartment with a fridge filled with real food.
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