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.

Everyone in college can recall their “worst night” (the night they end up passed out in a pile of woodchips, or walking home at 8AM with a banana costume on), but unfortunately for us, all four of my roommates had ours on the same night.

It was a brisk fall evening, my roommates and I were fully stocked on booze, and there was a very lovely and crowded double kegger down the street. We didn’t even need to get a taxi to get there!  This night was looking good. Only, in reality, the night was a recipe for pure destruction: two of us were recently single, and the other two were well-seasoned single ladies who’d had a long week of studying.  Excited, we each pounded five drinks before even leaving the house.

Upon arriving, we already thought we were the best dancers in the universe and we were feeling pretty good about the previously (now about seven) consumed drinks.  The party was full of cute college boys and girls we knew, the music was loud and, 99% of the time, we were raising the roof and having the “epic night” we had planned for.  The drinking ensued.

Suddenly as quickly as you can say “pop, lock, and drop it” the epic night my roomies had been hoping to endure began to unravel. It began with the cops deciding to join the (mostly underage) party and ended with…. well, let me break the story down by roommate so it’s easier to follow.

Roommate #1 (We will call her “Kristine”)

The entire night, Kristine had been hoping to meet up with a nice young gentleman she had been talking to in class.  He was cute, friendly, and a perfect remedy for her recently ended long-term relationship.  She had tried sloppily talking to him when she arrived, but thanks to the gin and tonics, it was getting pretty difficult to communicate.  In a drunken haze, she had also noticed CuteBoy had been talking up a Freshman that frighteningly resembled  Britney Spears. That called for another shot, or two…. Near ten minutes later, as the cops made their grand entrance, Kristine was diving head first into the (very public) kitchen sink.  Turns out the shots of tequila didn’t agree with her. Between heaving sessions, she looked up at CuteBoy chatting up BritneySpearsGirl. Then, someone dressed up in a cop outfit stepped in front of her hazy view. It took her a moment. “Wait…. what? It’s not Halloween.” And then she ran.  Fast.

Roommate #2 (We will call her “Nicole”)

Nicole was having a great night. She was with a dude she had been dating for a few months, and things were going really well for them.  But, this night in particular (after getting sick in the bathroom, and running away from the cops), her guy took her back to her apartment to sleep. And she took it upon herself to bawl her eyes out and apologize for being so intoxicated. He said it was fine and not to worry, but she insisted it was not… and passed out mid-sentence.  He went home.

Roommate #3 (We will call her “Tiffany”)

When the cops arrived at the party, Tiffany was trapped in the basement.  She made awkward eye contact with a cop as she ran out of the house with red cup in hand. Luckily, her sober friend was there to pick her up.  But alcohol makes you stupid and she ignored the presence of her friend and ran home, alone. Luckily, the cops parked on the street by the house let her go. Fifteen minutes later, after drunk-dialing her crush approximately 80 times, she passed out on the steps of her apartment, 10 feet away from her room.  She later awoke in a puddle of her own drool, collected herself and resorted to the comfort of her own bed.

Roommate #4 (We will call her “Kate”)

This is the most unfortunate story, which is why I have saved it for last.  Kate had been holding hands and receiving free shots from the cutie that lived at the house. And come midnight, it was time to see what his bedroom had to offer. It was fun, for a while, until a cop stormed into the scene, Kate vomited all over the bed (which turned out to be another roommate’s) and she got a ride home from the nice gentleman dressed in the cop outfit. Oh wait, it wasn’t Halloween….

Whose high school pics are these?

Best and worst schools for a kegger.

What is ear candling?

Sandra Bullock looks super fine on the cover of Glamour.

WTF is Joe Jonas doing?

If you want to converse or understand what is goin’ on around you, you are going to need to learn the language. Here are some words you should get used to hearing and using for the next 4 (or more) years.

Sexile- The act of being forced to leave your dorm so your roommate can engage in a hookup/sex.

Dormcest/ Dorm Whore- When one becomes romantically/sexually involved with a student occupying the same residence hall or floor.(Note: This is some many college goers do NOT recommend, so date at your own risk)

Walk of Shame- A little trip one takes from the site of a hook-up back to their own place. This is usually done at an ungodly hour while clothes that looked cute the night before but are now wrinkled and smell like a mix of spilled PBR and Axe. Also known as Shame Walk or Sex Walk

Kegger- A party that features a keg. Unless this party is greek-endorsed, expect to pay money to get in.

PJ (Party Juice)- An alcoholic juice that can be made with various types of liquors, sodas and juices. Make sure to ask what’s in the juice before sipping, because some people like to make their pj strong (read: a whole fifth of Everclear). Also known as Jungle Juice.

Sausage Fest- A party where the guy to girl ratio is about 5:1. Unless your entire school has a ratio like this, leave soon. Also known as a Brodeo.

LUG- Lesbian Until Graduation. This the female whom you’ll find flirting with every girl at parties until she can manipulate (or intoxicate) one into going home with her for a little girl-on-girl action. She’s all for gay rights and marriage until she walks across the stage in May and begins post-college life. Years later you can find her married (to a man of course) and telling her buddies how her tendency to like girls was “just a phase.”

Sororstitute- A female whose life revolves around her membership to a greek letter organization. Upon pledging she will desert her non-greek friends for her new ones. This type of female can be spotted on campus with her fellow sororstitutes wearing some combination of Greek-lettered sweatshirts, tees, or tote bags, North Faces, boat shoes, Uggs, and bug-eyed sunglasses. (Note: I have no problem with greek letter orgs, just people who join and forget that life does exist outside of the Panhellenic Council)

Got any other words we should add to our College Language flashcards?

[Photo courtesy of Webster's]

This mantra grows increasingly ineffective the longer I am forced to live under the same roof as my mother. If you are lucky enough to have left behind your home home for your school home, then God bless you, throw a kegger in your living room (on a motha effing TUESDAY!) If you, like me, have yet to escape your personal circle of hell, I’ve compiled a small guide to maintaining your sanity as well as familial relations for the remainder of this short (but dear Allah, oh so long) stint back home. Because, let’s face it, being disowned would be counterproductive if your parents still pay the majority of your tuition/rent/medical bills and whatnot.

Scenario: You come home from a bar crawl, unhappy matriarch/patriarch up and awaiting your return, toe tapping a Morse code slew of disapproving comments.

Solution: Passive Aggression. Outwardly, bow your head and accept the berating and “Not under my roof” nonsense. Avoid eye contact, showcasing your humility and apologetic demeanor, all the while making easier your inner thought process: “Haha! You are merely projecting your jealousy onto me because you can’t go out till 3 am! At school, this is an early night! Mwahaha!”

Immature, yes. But engaging dear old Dad in a heated debate about your rights as an adult probably won’t go over so well right now. At a more convenient time, explain to your parents that you have successfully survived (insert number of) years away from home by employing your own methods of sustenance, safety and–ahem–entertainment. They will respond to your rational explanation and hopefully won’t impose some bizarre curfew on you. Throwing in a few compliments to them (“You’ve raised me to be responsible, mature, whatevs”) can’t hurt either.

Scenario: Waking up at 6 am, according to your parents, is the normal and productive lifestyle you should be leading.

Solution: Evasive Action. Sleeping in is usually encouraged by not having a job, which may be the real reason your parents have a problem with you getting your much needed rest. If you do have a job, though, or it doesn’t require that you wake up at the ass crack of dawn to be a good employee, throw on a sleep mask, get some ear buds and lock your door. When you do eventually begin your day, your parents will inevitably assume you’ve been sleeping and begin to criticize you. At this point you can a) craft an elaborate excuse as to why you invented your own Do Not Disturb signs (composing a symphony, welding, extremely detailed pedicure) or b) inform your parents that they are being unreasonable and inconsiderate of your needs as a growing girl. The next time you drift off, picture yourself back at college, where napping is seen as a necessary daily component and not a source of ill will.

Scenario: Constant pestering about your grades, career, health, love life, bank account, etc.,

Solution: Rationing and Regulating. Ah, college. Land of cheap beer, philosophical discussion, hot guys and occasional phone calls to and from home. A few times a week ( if that!), you call home to brag about a great paper grade, tell a funny anecdote, or occupy yourself on your way to class. This serves the purpose of assuring your parents that you are alive, well, and not on Girls Gone Wild (not that you couldn’t call home if you were on GGW, it would probably just be a much more interesting conversation). It also enables you to control the amount of information your loved ones can wield against you during arguments about whether you’re “on the right path” (yeah, my family is probably dysfunctional.) I see no reason not to employ this tactic at home as well.

While you cannot simply hang up in the middle of a face to face conversation–I’ve tried it, trust me– you can change the subject to highlight an area of your life that is slightly more appealing to the fam’s best interests. Don’t lie or ice your parents out, this will only backfire; just casually ease off the topic of boyfriends (or lack thereof) and explain (in great detail) a theory you learned about in class. They love knowing where their money’s going, and showing off your fancy schmancy improved I.Q. should go over well, you genius, you.

While I understand that these situations are the very least of the conflicts you will confront after moving back home (at least in my case they are), many of these solutions can be applied to other issues. The bottom line is, moving back into your parents house for the summer may cause you to revert to your 15 year old self in their eyes. The key is to show them that you are not the moody and irreverent teen they’re picturing. You are a mature young woman who deserves their respect and trust. Now go hang out by their sweet pool, help yourself to their fully stocked fridge and crank that AC up allll the way baby, because those perks are definitely something we’ll miss come September.

What problems have you run into Mom and Dad-wise, now that you’re back at home? How do you deal?

[Photo courtesy of motherdaughtercatfight.com]

Dear Boyfriend,

While you were at your frat’s campfire Friday night—I know, triple kegger! How could you not check it out? Life’s too short, bro!—I stayed in and watched “Camp Rock,” Disney Channel’s newest original movie starring The Jonas Brothers.

Let me tell you something; these “bros” are like three Prince Charmings, and you’re still just a frog—a frog with crappy hair gel and a dorm room that constantly smells like Jose Cuervo and dirty underwear.

After the movie, I got to thinking: the JoBros would collectively make a much better boyfriend than you. So without further adieu…

Here are the top 20 reasons why I’d rather date the Jonas Brothers:

1. Fame

2. Money

3. Won’t consider the “Pimp My Ride” marathon and frozen White Castle burgers a romantic night in on our one-year anniversary

4. Great hair

5. Hey, uh, that middle one…Joe Jonas…he’s over 18, right?

6. Record-breaking tours

7. Won’t abandon me in Cabo over Spring Break—even if they ran into Matt Pinfield from MTV and “had to buy the dude a round.”

8. …that Joe’s got a killer smile…

9. Adorable YouTube videos

10. …and a girl could really get lost in those eyes…

11. At least one other brother is always nearby

12. Have you seen how his ass looks in those white leather pants?

13. Scripted Disney show in the works

14. …And the way he sings that ballad in “Camp Rock” is SO hot…

15. Two words: family values

16. Wow, I mean, just thinking about Joe…

17. They’ve met the friggin’ Queen!

18. …I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before.

19. I mean, I think you think you’ve made me feel this way, but trust me, I was faking it.

20. I, uh, I need a minute. BRB.

…Wow, back! Much better. Anyway, there you have it. Even if I never meet them because I’m not a Disney tween star, the thought alone of dating a JoBro is ten times better than actually dating you.

Love,

Jessica

P.S. Can you please drop my Miley Cyrus sleeping bag at my apartment when you get a chance? Thanks.

[Photo courtesy of clubjonas.com]

Thus, I present to you my scholarly dissection of the sexual politics of the keg. This past Friday, I went to my friend’s birthday party. Since I knew the host of the party, I considered myself a VIP and budged the keg line, edging out frat boys in pastel-colored shorts and backwards caps to stake my claim. Once I reached the keg, I started to do what I needed to do when Dude #1 called me out. “HEY!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing? Let me do it for you.”

Um. Okay. I know I may look young and weak, but as a scholar I at least know how to pump a keg. I may not be an engineering major like Dude #1, but come on, it’s like buttering bread.

I then realized, though, that this wasn’t about physics. This was about sex, and we were suddenly back in the middle ages. I was the only girl within 20 feet of the keg (I was also the only girl not wearing a mini-skirt and a halter, but it’s laundry week). The rest of the chicks stood giggling and talking about their favorite pastel short-clad homeys in the living room. The guys manned the keg: It was their chivalrous duty to dispense alcohol to the mini-skirted lovelies under the guise of hospitality, but with the hope, or perhaps even the expectation, of sex.

I wasn’t having it. I can’t say I made many friends at that party, but such is the life of an academic-feminist beer drinker. Mary Tyler Moore would be proud.