I went to a house party.
And I’m alive to tell the story!

It had been about 2 years since attending my last house party and while standing amongst a large cluster of shirtless freshman dudes sweating and spinning their shirts in the air to the beat of Sean Kingston, I realized something. I am no rocket scientist (clearly, on account of my next statement), but house parties so different than the bar. You would think they would be the same – drunk people standing around – but there’s something (maybe it’s the open keg at house parties that encourages half-naked mosh pits in the living room?) that sets these two party scenes miles apart:

House Party: Unlimited alcohol. This means kegs to tap, red cups to grab, and Evian bottles filled with…er….not water….to pull out of your purse and pass around. There is no doubt the blood alcohol level is averaging significantly higher than any established place on campus.  It is just that much easier to get tipsy at a house party, and stay tipsy not remember a minute of your night.
Bar: $10 dollars for a Long Island? How to people expect anyone to get drunk around here if you have to pay your left leg for a watered down rail drink? And everyone is so busy standing in line for the bathroom (thanks to those melted ice cubes), no one really has time to get rowdy.

House Party: House parties make clothes come off. Seriously, I don’t know if it is the 80 games of beer pong or the overly crowded, steamy living room, but before you know it, guys are whipping their shirts off and dancing like their late night hook up depends on it.
Bar: Maybe it has something to do with the law (no shirt, no pants, no watered-down vodka tonic?), but the clothes aren’t coming off.

House Party: Conversations usually don’t span past drunken chants of “CHUG, CHUG, CHUG!”
Bar: Semi-intellectual conversations abound: “So…what’s your major?” and “OMG, look at the line for the bar.”

House Party: One minute everyone’s standing around looking for the one person they know, the next every girl in the room is wearing a guy’s piece of clothing, be it a flat brimmed hat or their jersey they tore off mid-50 Cent chorus. It’s getting hot in herrrre, so put on someone else’s clothes?
Bar: Again, getting nakey in the bar is just not OK. Especially according that that very big bouncer staring angrily at you across the room.

House Party: All you need is a flash of a smile and the big dude with the bigger muscles will pump that ice cold beer into your Solo cup, no matter how many times you ask.  (Editor’s Note: is it just me, or does that sound gross?)
Bar: After you stand behind a crowd of bar drinkers (seriously, can’t they just get their drink and go?!), elbow your way to the front and literally wave your cash in the air until that “hot” bartender in the low-cut top glances your way, you get an overpriced rum and Diet that tastes too much like diet and not enough like rum.

House Party: Three letters: P.D.A.
Bar: Two words: bathroom stall.

Honestly, it’s like a whole different world out there in House Party-ville and I’m not sure if I love or hate it. Or if I even really remember it. Or who’s lacrosse jersey I slept in last night. All I know is campus party destinations are most definitely not created equal.

There's more to us than what's popping out of our dresses, you know.

I just got back from the happiest place on earth. And no, I’m not talking about Disneyland. Although Vegas is a lot LIKE Disneyland, but instead of candy you have booze and instead of rides you have prostitutes. Which I guess can be considered rides…. If I had spent more than three days there, my entire body and life would have started decaying as quickly as my morals did (just kidding guys, no secret marriages here!).

But beyond all the slot machines, free booze and horny people everywhere, Las Vegas is like single life grown in a petri dish; it’s bigger and more rampant, and it lets you observe some things. A lot of the weekend involved putting on our hottest outfits, going to the hottest places, and (hopefully) flirting with the hottest guys.  But somewhere in between flirting with the bouncer to get to the head of the line (which probably only works for Lindsay Lohan) and making eyes at the cute guy across the dance floor, it hit me: the giant singles meat market that is Las Vegas is not too far off from the giant singles meat market that is my life in Chicago.

Is the reason it’s so hard to get a date because things have just gotten too gosh darn shallow? Most of the single girls I know are pretty freaking cute, and everyone with eyes seems to wonder why they’re not taken. Well, maybe it’s because there are freaking cute girls everywhere, and they are in mass quantities at all your favorite clubs. And to all the freaking cute guys doing laps around said clubs, we ladies all look exactly the same: tight jeans, tall shoes, low tops…

And that seems to be all anyone really cares about.

I’m not opposed to getting to know people when I go out on the town at all, but to be honest, it doesn’t feel like there’s too much “getting to know” in the equation at all. A lot of it is putting on killer heels and busting out your boobs the best dance moves.

So what does that tell any potential date I meet? Sure as hell not that my favorite book is East of Eden or that I’m going to volunteer in Ecuador this summer. All it tells them is that I really, really like the song Poker Face (which is important to know if you plan on spending the rest of your life with me, obvi).

Now, I’m not hating on meeting guys at bars and clubs. I’m just saying, if you really expect something out of it, it couldn’t hurt to shake up how you go about it. Instead of luring someone onto the dance floor where he will grind his junk against your butt and it’s guaranteed the DJ will drown you out if you even pretend to care what the other is saying,  why not hang closer to the bar where you’re able to have a real conversation? And maybe instead of going for the Chuck Bass look alike, go for the guy with the quirkiest pick up line (actually, I wouldn’t hold it against you if you just went for the Chuck Bass look alike…).

You can still dress sexy and dance sexy… just make sure the guy who’s trying to get your number knows you’ve got a personality under those clip-on extensions. You’re at least guaranteed a more exciting first date. Or a first date at all.

Except, I do imagine it. I catch myself worrying about non-existent assignments and responsibilities that won’t resume until September. But even more, I constantly find myself spacing out at work, reminiscing about all the good stuff that comes along with college. Mostly the whole not-bored-at-work-9-to-5 thing.

And I miss it!

Meal Plans: While I’m lucky enough not to be taking classes this summer, I do have to work — which means I’m stuck in a college town all summer long without the benefit of visiting home, and therefore the benefit of home cookin’. My freshman year, I ate dining hall food. My sophomore year, my sorority dues included a meal plan. This summer, with my sorority house closed and the dining halls freshmen-infested, I’m armed only with my apartment’s kitchen and whatever the hell I find when I Google “easy, cheap, healthy recipes” and pudding. Do I enjoy learning to cook? Absolutely. Would I prefer a cook to prepare my meals? Uh, hell yes. Plus, there’s no clean up if you’re not the one using all the dishes…

The Gym: As any lady knows, summer is either the best time to flaunt your hard earned bikini-bod, or to berate yourself for spending more of Spring watching The Office than a yoga instructor. So naturally, gym time is a necessary evil (unless you enjoy working out, which I sadly do not). Imagine my disappointment when I arrived at my campus gym early for kickboxing, only to have my student I.D. DENIED at the turnstile. It was almost as embarrassing as having a credit card declined, weirdly enough. Apparently, if you don’t take summer classes at FSU, you can’t use the gym (I guess the tuition I pay during fall and spring doesn’t cut it). Every day as I run outside (instead of on a treadmill with AC and Daisy of Love repeats) I count the days until I’ll be back at the student gym.

The Bar Scene: Never in my life did I think I’d find myself wishing for the bar to be more crowded. There are no lines for the bathroom, the bartenders are almost overly attentive, and I have enough room to extend my arms. All of these are seemingly good things, but when there are no people to watch, no strangers to mingle with, and no one standing between me and unlimited mojitos, things at the bar just don’t end well. When it takes me 20 minutes to fight my way through the crowd to the bar in Fall, I will look back at this time lovingly, but for now, the bar scene just seems kinda boring.

“Academic Expenses”: As I mentioned before, I’m a working woman. But when my parents offer to help out with any school related costs, I definitely don’t turn it down. The beauty of this is that there is always some way to explain a purchase as necessary to my academic career. “Supplies” at Walmart, “Business attire” for those in-class presentations, and my personal favorite “Whatever they sell at the bookstore” because Mom’s credit card is on file there. A random charge on her statement is easily explained during the semester, but trying to convince her that I need money for “road trip supplies” doesn’t go as smoothly.

Overall, I’m not complaining about a long, hot and relaxing summer—but there are definitely a few things I miss about Fall and Spring. What about you guys?

I admit to not putting 100% into my academic efforts in college, but that was because I didn’t need to. I was writing papers with a buzz on and taking finals hungover, and still made Dean’s List. I knew that grad school would be different though, and I fully intended on being a legitimate scholar.

If you are considering grad school, you are probably doing very well in school. By senior year, you’re probably breaking the curves and tutoring your friends. You probably stand out in class for having thoughtful ideas and a firm grasp of the subject matter. Newsflash: Everyone in Grad School has gotten used to being a star scholar.

Often, PhD students and MA students will be mixed into classes together. I went from taking Shakespeare classes with business majors who didn’t know the definition of “iambic pentameter” to listening to a PhD debate over which folio edition was most likely the Bard’s original manuscript. WTF? My thoughts exactly.

Because college often mixes students of all different academic backgrounds, there’s a lot of information that slips through the cracks, even in a university setting. There were certain things that other MA students took for granted that I’d never been taught. A lot of research methods that PhD students had been using for years were completely alien to me. Even more embarrassing (for an English major, especially): I’d never written an abstract. Of course, writing an abstract was one of my first assignments in grad school.

I spent longer writing my first two-page abstract (a response to a critical article by one of the most renowned Shakespeare scholars in academia) than I did writing a ten-page research paper in college. Imagine my disdain when I received a “check minus” and a “Please Revise” comment on the damn thing. My professors in undergrad had always complimented my writing style, but my graduate professor tore apart my abstract. Comments like “wordy,” “colloquial,” and “strive for active verbs” littered the piece that I’d struggled with for hours.

As I continued through the semester, I continued to be disappointed with myself time and again. I ended up rewriting almost every abstract I wrote for my graduate Shakespeare class, and even my revisions usually didn’t get a higher mark than a “check.” Once a straight “A” student, I got a “C” on an easy response activity because I had two grammatical errors that involved a comma and a semi-colon. I had research paper proposals torn to shreds, and I was told to completely redo entire assignments for various reasons.

Of course, by the end of my grad school career, I was working with the same professor who had given me my first “check minus.” As my thesis advisor, she constantly reassured me that my writing style had become more polished, and the rest of my committee also complimented my word choice and tone. In the end, I stuck it out, and I improved, but it was never easy to handle harsh criticism and see my work take such a beating.

I’m not going to tell you that I finished grad school without a considerable amount of tears, rage, and near-nervous breakdowns. Still, I completed the degree and expanded my knowledge of English literature. Looking back, I think I may have been too sensitive to the negative feedback I received time and again, but that just goes to show that grad school isn’t for everyone. If you are planning on moving on, I suggest you grow a thick skin and check your ego at the door.

Life doesn’t come equipped with an orchestra. If your sexcapades, like your iTunes, are on shuffle, here are a few songs you probably don’t want on your playlist.

1. “Dat Baby”–Shawty Putt feat. Lil Jon

With a chorus of “Dat baby don’t look like me,” and an opening line, “Dat baby ain’t mine… I’m sorry, bitch you heard Maury,” this jam is an instant libido-killer. The last thing a guy wants to hear as he’s sliding into home base is “You are NOT the father!” Sure, you’re using protection, but condoms aren’t 100% effective…paternity tests, on the other hand, don’t lie. Besides, no woman wants to find out that her cute college hookup won’t take responsibility if an accident does happen.

2. “You’re Pretty When I’m Drunk”– Bloodhound Gang

You can kick yourself in the morning when you sober up and realize that the guy you brought home from the bar last night looks nothing like David Beckham (actually, he more closely resembles Danny DeVito), so you don’t need Jimmy Pop saying “I told you so.” Besides, lines like “I’m hungry like the wolf, but I’ll end up taming cattle,” and “it wouldn’t be the first time that I gave a dog a bone,” though satirical, are pretty harsh. As liberated, self-respecting women, we know we’re pretty when he’s sober, too, inside and out.

3. “John Wayne Gacy, Jr.”– Sufjan Stevens

If you didn’t know that this song is about the infamous serial killer, you might think the gentle ballad sets the mood. However, if your ears perk up at the lines, “And in my best behavior, I am really just like him/ Look underneath the floor boards for the secrets I have hid,” you’ll probably get creeped out, and ask yourself how well you really know the guy who’s jamming his tongue down your throat.

4. “UR So Gay”– Katy Perry

Straight guys will go flacid as soon as Ms. Perry belts her titular accusation in the chorus. They won’t even listen to the following line, “you don’t even like boys.” Homophobic or not, men don’t like to have their sexualities questioned. Besides, the whole song is an angry letter to a shallow metrosexual. You would never want your lover to “hang [himself] with an H & M scarf,” now, would you?

5. “MmmBop”– Hanson

This song will actually probably cause many social situations to take a turn down Embarrassment Alley. If you’re a closet Hanson fan, that’s fine. But your guy might not appreciate your “special” quirks.

Any I missed?

Sometimes, I think finding out that your mate has cheated is a blessing in disguise, because you can sidestep the entire “this isn’t working” discussion and end things in an explosive fight instead. Of course, for those of us who just had to choose nice, faithful boys, it can be hard to let the poor guy down. So, we make up excuses. Sometimes we even lie.

If you don’t think your man can handle the truth (“You’re obviously not going to get any better at foreplay,” “If I have to waste one more Sunday watching football with you and your frat boy buddies, I’m going to slit my own throat,” or, simply, “I can’t wait to bang Johnny from Journalism class, as soon as I get out of these shackles,”) you may want to/be forced to fabricate a reason for ending your exclusive relationship.

Junior year of college, I was in a dead end relationship. I had chased my boyfriend, and won, and within six months, I was bored. I tried so hard to instigate a blow-up, but it never worked. Instead of the ever-dramatic, uber-conclusive “Get out!”/ doorslam combo, my ex started crying and pacing around the halls of my dorm room, where a concerned RA took pity on him and returned him to my doorstep.

I considered a plethora of lies to catapult me back into the singles scene. “It’s not you, it’s me” is too generic an excuse, and when I tried to play that card, the guy started promising to change. I tried to use money as an excuse, arguing that I needed to pick up more shifts at work and spend less money on nights out. That one blew up in my face, since we worked together, and he thought that more work for me would also mean more time we could spend together; he also suggested saving money by staying in and watching movies. By this point, cuddling with him was making my skin crawl, but of course, I bit my tongue and sat through Quentin Tarantino’s Four Rooms. Since he was a pothead, I considered using narcotics as an excuse, but, as a partier myself, I would sound hypocritical, unless I vowed to cut booze out of my life.

How was I ever going to end this one?

Truth be told, it took an ambulance ride and a percocet prescription to get back into the singles scene. I kid you not.

My blessing-in-disguise came in the form of a dislocated knee. I had to take a leave of absence from my waitressing job, where my ex was a cook. Bonus: no awkward post-break-up interaction! I ignored the guy for a couple of days, and then told him that since I was incapacitated, I thought it would be too difficult to continue with the relationship. He was working full-time, after all, and I had to hobble around campus on crutches and crash, exhausted, at the end of the day.

I pretended I was more upset than I really was and said I was going to throw myself into my schoolwork for the rest of the semester. In reality, I was at the bar most nights, crutches and all. But at least I was single at the bar on crutches. It is sad that it took bodily harm to end my relationship, but sometimes there are no other options.

Am I alone on this one? Anyone else ever have some ridiculous story to get out of a relationship?

1.“You intimidate me because you’re [insert your ethnicity here].” Hi, try responding to that—when you’re clearly not interested—without sounding like a complete racist. I deserve a drink from the bartender just for being made to feel that uncomfortable, thanks.

2. “You look like you should be on that show So You Think You Can Dance.” Caveat here is, if you are not dancing in any way, shape, or form. I’m wearing shorts and 4-inch heels, these aren’t exactly my dancing shoes, but thanks?

3. “A girl like you should always have a guy next to her. Always.” Yes, I concur. To keep creepers like yourself from getting too close to me.

4. “You’re so [pick your most painfully obvious feature. Even if you're just average, imagine someone is saying that to you in a complimentary fashion.]” There’s a difference between being observant and having tact. I can see which one you picked…

I also enjoy the random men who offer life advice:

“If a man isn’t willing to rub your feet at the end of the day, get rid of him. You can do better than that.” This was legitimately thrown my way one night at a friend’s birthday party. I’m not even creative enough to dream this sh*t up. I mean, does this guy have a total foot fetish? Is he staring at my Gladiator-ed feet and getting a little….turned on?

I’m pretty attached to my pedicure place, actually. I get the sentiment, but I think I’m fine with general emotional attachment, flowers, dinner, etc. Foot massage is not a prerequisite of mine when choosing a boyfriend, or even a one-night stand.

Alright ladies, I know it’s not just me. What are some of the worst lines you’ve gotten lately?

[photo courtesy of cin1977's blog:]

Getting hit on can be one of two things; slightly flattering and fun, or completely disgusting and oh-so incredibly lame. In my experience, being hit on by lesbians is an occurrence almost totally devoid of the latter.

I’m sure some of you have lesbian pick-up horror stories (or fantasies, whatever the case may be), but whenever I’ve been the attempted pick-up-ee by another woman, I have felt neither the grossed out shivers or the latent uncomfortableness that often accompanies the male pick-up.

For one thing, women always start a conversation first, asking a question, asking a name, instead of going right for the proverbial jugular of “you’re hot, can I buy you a drink?” Easing into things allows both parties to feel like they’re actually talking, rather than diving headfirst into a mating ritual.

Something else women always seem to do is look people in the eye. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve met a man at a bar and watched him talk to my chest (not just mingle with it, expound with it), feeling pretty violated the entire time. Every time a woman has hit on me, her eyes stay north, preferring to get to know the face attached to the boobs.

Thirdly, most women just aren’t creepy. A 45-year-old dude with a ponytail and weird handlebar mustache trying to get my number: creeptastic. A 45-year-old woman with a ponytail (and one would hope, no mustache) trying to get my number: only slightly uncomfortable.

I’ve made my way to quite a few bars in the city I live in, and sometimes, lesbian bars are the ones with the best music, best dancing, and best drinks. Sure, there are women out there who are pushy, persistent, and intimidating, but most of them are going to treat you with refreshing respect you don’t see very often in straight bars.

And one last bonus point for the ladies? Every time I’ve told a woman that I’m straight, she accepts it and continues whatever conversation we were having. When was the last time you made it clear to a guy you weren’t interested—and he stuck around to chat?

You’re at a bar, minding your own business, talking to your friends and occasionally turning to see if that cute guy by the bathroom is actually with that girl he’s standing next to, or is just waiting in line to pee, when out of nowhere, a dude steps into your line of vision and says something slightly to very insulting. Don’t understand how it’s possible? Here are two real life examples:

Dude: “You two girls suck”

My friend and I freeze, staring at him in complete confusion.

Dude: “Seriously. You suck.”

Me: “Ok.”

I don’t know what else to say, and don’t care enough to trade insults with him. Nudging my friend with my elbow, I signal that it’s time to vacate the area.

Dude: “I mean, I’ve been here for an hour and haven’t been able to talk to either one of you!”

He grins, and asks us our names, and starts to talk to us. He’s actually friendly, but we leave soon after introductions because neither of us can forget how utterly rude he had been only moments ago.

At another bar with another friend, I’m trying to squeeze through an insanely huge crowd of people to get a beer. I can hardly breathe, and am in no mood to be yelled at by some tall, skinny, bi-speckled geek, but he continues to shout directly into my ear.

Dick: “Seriously! Is that real?”

Me: “What do you think?” I scream extra loud into his face, hoping he’ll back the hell off.

Dick: “It doesn’t look natural at all!”

My Friend: “Your face doesn’t look natural!”

And with that, she pulls me away and deeper into the crowd, leaving the geek and his geek associates to sketch out an algebraic graph of the chances of them getting laid.

Apparently, insulting girls to get them to notice you is something certain men (read: idiots) do all the time. There’s even a book written about it. The Game, by Neil Strauss, is all about how Strauss, a former social outcast, turned himself into a sex machine by becoming a Pick Up Artist.

“Most women respond to routines involving tests, psychological games, fortune telling and cold reading like addicts respond to free drugs” Strauss writes, going on to explain how a “neg” – a “barbed compliment or vaguely humorous insult” – should be employed on women who are used to getting compliments because it’ll make them “crave the PUA’s (Pick Up Artist’s) attention and approval”. Sure. If they have no self-esteem and enjoy jackasses.

I, for one, never respond well to this idiotic way of thinking. If I don’t know you, don’t insult me—it’s as simple as that. There’s a difference between being charming and being sleazy, and Strauss’s advice seems to rotate around the latter. Why insult a girl when it’s just as easy to smile, ask her a question, treat her like a cool chick you’d like to get to know? Those are the men I’m attracted to, the ones who have enough real confidence and charm to start up a conversation, without using lines or attempted psychological mindfucks. He may consider himself a P.I.M.P, but Strauss, and all his followers, will forever be geeks in my eyes. Who needs a book to tell them how to interact with the opposite sex? Who needs to rely on games and step-by-step instructions to land a date?

Grow some balls. Talk to me like a human being. Make me laugh. And leave the manual at home.