Wait...you do WHAT for a living?

Thanksgiving gets increasingly more stressful for me every single year. If I’m not having nightmares about the stuffing running out before it gets passed to me, then I’m biting my nails over the fact that I’ll have to explain my career to my family sixteen times. And let’s not even get started on the fact that I’ve misplaced my expandable waistband jeans and turkey-print mumu. There’s no way I’m sitting down at that table wearing anything else. The last thing I can afford is a busted pair of pants with no buttons and a broken zipper.

I’m pretty sure my own parents can’t figure out exactly how blogging works or how I’m making money — so I have no idea how to even explain it to my grandmother. For years I thought she was computer literate, but it sadly turns out she was convinced that the Windows Paint program was actually the Internet. It certainly explains why she was adamant that my e-mails were never getting to her, but it will also make explaining blogging to her quite the challenge. Perhaps my best bet is to just replace her entire World Book 1965 collection with book covers that say “by Jenni” and tell her that I’ve been writing outdated encyclopedias since graduation.

Even worse than having to explain blogging to a 176-year-old (give or take a few decades) is having to beat around the bush when my younger relatives actually ask to see the blogs. While I’m writing for six different blogs, there is not one that’s appropriate for family members to see. If I’m not writing about one-night stands or pee pranks, then I’m giving advice to elderly men on how to date financially desperate women. And I’ve just ruled out showing this one because I know someone will tattle on me to my grandmother, which means a month from now when my siblings are opening up Chanukah envelopes with crisp 10 dollar bills, I’ll be opening a package marked hazardous that’s filled with my grandmother’s old dentures.

My anxiety ulcers aren’t just coming from having to explain my blogging career, but also from having to spend time with my extended family. When I was little, cramming 12 cousins into 2 beds seemed like a fun challenge. But now that everyone’s grown up (and gained weight) it’s more like every man for himself — if you don’t get a bed or a couch, make yourself cozy under the kitchen table. And beds are nothing compared to the fight over the remote. So help me god if anyone thinks they’re watching anything besides 30 Rock on Thursday night.

For a second I thought that maybe I was overdoing the stress and exaggerating the whole situation. But then my mom just called and gave me the annual lecture about not going out of my way to make my sister cry this year and I realized that I might be better off spending the holiday in my apt — TV remote and bed to myself.

While living with my grandparents has its perks (unlimited prune juice), it also has its downside (the only available beverage is prune juice). And even though I’m in the biggest city in the world, I’ve never felt more alone. There’s nothing more depressing than coming home from work and seeing people your age having crazy amounts of fun together, and knowing the only thing that awaits you is hearing the latest CNN updates from your grandfather.

So when my friend said she was having a graduation party in Boston, I jumped at the chance to go. Too bad I didn’t jump fast enough and all the tickets on the good bus were sold out. I wasn’t going to miss a weekend with my friends, though, so despite reading reviews of late, overbooked, and nonexistent buses, I booked a seat on the discount line. Not only did the bus show up on time but it was also double decker! Which was good, because the thought of arriving to Boston unemployed and in a single decker bus was just beyond embarrassing.

My friends picked me up at the bus and we went straight out to the bars. I don’t know how I went from being able to drink for ten hours straight just a month ago to not being able to stay awake past midnight now, but it wasn’t pretty. I feel like I’m aging in dog years; every month out of college is seven months of adulthood. By the end of the summer I won’t be able to go to happy hour without putting in my dentures first.

But even though I was falling asleep at the bar and ordering alka-seltzer shots, I still felt better seeing my friends again. It reminded me that at one point I did used to have the ability to have fun. And fun we had. The beauty of no one having jobs is that no one had a reason not to come to the Boston reunion weekend. It almost felt like we were back at school, except for the part where the drinks were more than $2 and we had to tiptoe into a real house and close the door to go to the bathroom because real live adults lived there.

And the grad party itself was a blast. Well, to my stomach, at least. There was enough food there to keep me fed and nourished for the rest of my life and, seeing as everything in my grandparents’ kitchen is pureed, I thought I’d load up. Not that it was different from any other BBQ situation I’ve ever been in – I don’t know why but I feel the need to treat every BBQ as if it were my last supper.

It must have been all the food that made me forget that I can’t play beer pong. Four years of college and I’m still lobbing the ball ten feet from the closest cup. I can write that down on my list of reasons not to miss school. Not so much the losing, but the feelings of rejection when people choose to play with the family dog instead of me.

Anyways, before I knew it the weekend was over and I was on my way back to New York. There’s definitely a spring back in my step now. I know there is hope in the world. I know that I’m not alone. I know that even though I spend my nights explaining to my grandparents that law school will not help a writing career, somewhere out there, a double decker bus ride away, I actually do have friends.

And that is where I had my first encounter with Huaraches. They were the trendiest and most-worn sandal on the pool deck. All the grandparents were wearing ‘em.

How they became the biggest trend for Spring shoes for the under 75 crowd, I’ll never know. Fashion is always surprising me.

They look really comfortable, but cute? I think not.

But whether I like it or not, this shoe is leaving Boca and making its way into the closets of fashionistas nationwide.

So I have to know:

Huaraches: Love Em or Hate Em?

5. A lost wallet and/or clutch. This is particularly disturbing because it is usually the first thing that hits you in the morning, well before you’ve had any time to nurse the hangover you earned. It feels very similar to being on a deserted island that smells strongly of vodka and lime. You are cell-less, cutting off contact with the outside world. With credit card whereabouts unknown and no proof of identity, you are left defenseless against fraud. If you are underage, there is the heavy burden of finding a new fake i.d. The brand new lip gloss and powder from MAC that you inevitably JUST bought are gone forever. Worst of all, your dear, loyal, and perfectly fashionable clutch will never be wedged into your armpit for pictures or table dancing ever again. R.I.P. Limited edition Coach Python and Boucle clutch. You will be missed.

4. The guy you went home with. Okay, last night this guy was h-o-t! He was witty and charming and so attentive to your needs; not once did he let you have an empty glass! Whether you met him at the pre-party, the bar, or on the way home (never a good sign), this dude – who seemed like a great idea at the time – is now nothing more than a big (or worse, tiny) mistake. Often, this error in judgment will use trickery and promises of rides on his family’s yacht to get you home with him, but come morning all he can offer is a ride home…if you’re lucky. High-tail it out of there and head to the nearest health clinic to make sure all he has given you is a bad memory.

3. Bar-Dancing Induced Injury. An injury caused in part by your favorite jam is highly unsettling; it feels like betrayal. Unfortunately, though, being hammered enough to hop on the bar and shake your shiz with the shot girls is begging for disaster. One minute you’re on top of the world (bartop) doing the drunk girl dance; the next, you are falling in slow motion into a sea of A/X clad gentlemen. While that group of guys was immobile for the last 5 minutes trying to look up your skirt, they have swiftly parted, allowing you to fall directly onto the floor. So much for chivalry. The only up-side to this drunk-tastrophe is when the bar staff take pity on you and set you with straight shots of Ketel One.

(Note: This mishap will always occur a day or two before a major event (like graduation) where you will then be forced to explain your injury to your grandparents.)

2. Hitchhiking. Only the biggest and baddest of theme parties (and the most alcoholic hunch punch) can inspire such stupidity. The problem with being both extremely intoxicated and too impatient to wait for a cab is that it often results in severe underestimation of distances, which can lead to the (incorrect) assumption that everywhere is within walking distance. While you saw nothing wrong with stumbling down a busy street’s sidewalk dressed in lingerie, angel wings and 4 inch pumps on a 38 degree evening, a kindhearted stranger did. He rolled down his window and had you at “Um, are you okay? Can I take you somewhere?” After hopping out of his car and wastedly thanking him (and God for letting you make it out alive), he sped off into the night with your angel wings.

1. Getting Arrested. While it seemed completely appropriate to hit on the hot young cop outside of the bar last night, this morning all that attraction has turned to regret. Despite his insistence that he was working, and that you should probably run along to the nearest Taco Bell and head home, you couldn’t resist to ask “Why, is there a plobrem occifer?” Cue his disgruntled and older partner to walk over, demand I.D. and arrests you for being drunk in public. Those hilarious comments about “ASS-aulting an officer” and your demands to have “Officer McChiseled-Abs” cuff you instead probably didn’t help your case, either. Use your one phone call wisely, because if you call your still-groggy girlfriends in the morning, they will most likely be laughing to0 hard to take you seriously.