After recognizing that I now go into every alcohol-induced social situation as if I’m an undercover reporter just waiting for the moment for people to make fools of themselves, I decided to reevaluate my intentions. My objective in writing is to be funny, not to wait for drunk people to fall into the Mill Race. Yes, of course that is funny, but I think I need a change of pace. Quite frankly, hunting for good stories is exhausting. Instigating hook ups and convincing my fellow students into several Power Hours is not a walk in the park, let me reassure you. It’s hard work, and after about a year of doing this, I think it’s time I took a sabbatical (I’m not really sure how those work or what they are, but from what I understand they seem like the ideal vacation). So, for a while, I’m done telling stories. I want to talk about things. Things I love, things I loath, and things I think about way too much that I have a strange suspicion no one else does. But if you do, seriously, please tell me. I like to know that my slightly offbeat and dysfunctional way of viewing life isn’t completely going to hell, or at least not by myself.
Firstly, I’d like to talk about funny people. Ever since transferring to a private Jewish high school when I was 15, it became very clear to me that we are running our world is wrong. I started believing this when I met the leadership at this school, and became legitimately concerned for my generation. In CJHS’s instance, our head of school was a dreadfully balding and slowly inflating man named Rabbi Rainer. He was short, round, and shiny, similarly to a Christmas tree ornament or a bowling ball. That is, if Chirstmas tree ornaments and bowling balls wore a yamulka and crocks everyday, of course.
This was a crime against humanity. Yes, on the outside he looked like he’d keep you laughing for hours, but I learned the hard way that he was in fact a mean, rude, angry man who was severely disappointed in his own life. Perhaps if I knew him as a real human instead of a principal, he may have been more enjoyable. But he wasn’t, and he sucked.
This is when I decided the world should be run by funny people. And only funny people. I’d like to list some individuals who I think would make excellent leaders in our national and global community, people that would bring peace, compassion, and unlimited adult Pampers for those of us who would be peeing in our pants a lot from laughing so much. So let’s boycott the bald and depressing, and elect the face-making, yelling, awkward comment-making leaders of tomorrow.
#1 My wonderful and weird siblings, Madi and Miles
Tonight when I told my brother how sweet it was that my friend Daniel had texted me saying to let him know when I got home safely, my brother didn’t think twice before saying “You should text him that you’re dead.”
Miles is in 4th grade, and without evening trying has the timing and comedic genius of every Office character there is. Angela, the pregnant anal cat lady character, is who particularly comes to mind. Please, Miles, don’t take offense to this.
Madi is my 18-year-old sister. She is the most sarcastic piece of shit I know. She would agree to this, as she calls herself a sarcastic piece of shit almost every day. No matter what you say or in what tone, she will immediately respond with a rude and impudent remark that will make you seriously wonder if she’s kidding or if she’s just a huge bitch. You wouldn’t know, because most of these backhanded comments are said with a completely straight face, but in her heart she’s smiling warmly and hopes she didn’t hurt your feelings. But, she doesn’t really care, therefore fails to clear this confusion. An example of this would be the two of us in a yoga class together, and one of the poses was too difficult for another girl sitting near us, so the girl sat down on her mat and took a drink of water. Madi’s immediate response to this was “Yup, keep up the good work, fatass. Working really hard, there.” The small, weak Asian girl who was just attacked by Madi looks up at me with a confused and desperate look that reads, “Help me.”
#2 Will Farrell
I think that Will Farrell would appropriately and effectively run the United States if elected president (something I’m still working on- I’ll keep you posted). No other comedian can get away with the shit will Farrell does. He brings pure grotesque joy to every American who appreciates fat jokes, ice skating competitions, man babies, NASCAR, the Catalina wine mixer, high fashion (that Hansel, he’s so hot right now), the news, 70’s disco music, dear baby Jesus, short-shorts and basketball, and the city of San Diego, also known as a whale’s vagina. If you’re an American and you don’t like any of these things, reevaluate your life now.
#3 Chelsea Handler
This blog is dedicated to her. Do I really need to explain why she made this list? Moving on.
#4 My absolute favorite teacher at CJHS, Dr. Ron Reissberg
This is a man who once told me he was attacked by a midget while driving a taxi and studying Torah at the same time. Now thinking about it, Dr. Reissberg definitely deserves his own chapter. This is your preview. Get excited!
#5 Mindy Kaling, also known as Kelly Kapour, from the Office
Kelly does not get enough credit on this damn show. She writes, produces, and acts in it, and still manages to pull the best lines, mainly concerning her tool boyfriend, Ryan, the Kardashians, and her weight. Kelly is the perfect combination, of sass, class, and Indian food.
#6 My beloved grandmother, Natalie Lewis
This is a 91-year-old woman who takes three days to eat a banana, saves leftover birthday cake for your arrival four months later, and cuts strawberries with pliers. She’ll leave a half-consumed Starbucks cup on top of a public garbage can in hopes that she’ll pass through that part of town later in the day and pick it up to finish then. She dies her hair black so that no one will be suspicious that she’s an old lady, and tells every customer at the Barnes and Noble she works at, Jewish or not, “Shabbat Shalom” on Fridays. She also despises Mahjong and any woman in her town who plays it. “A very particular kind of woman plays Mahjong,” she’ll say in disgust, “but it’s absolutely mindless. That’s not me. I’m a scrabble girl.” The best part about my dear Grandma Natalie is that she’s always your number one fan, now matter how pathetic your life becomes. “Sarah, how was your day today? Make any progress? Did you get a job?” she’ll ask my 25-year-old cousin. “Nope,” Sarah will reply, “But I picked up some things at the grocery store. I also met some interesting homeless people in the park.” “Oh Sarah,” Grandma will start whimpering, “I’m so proud of you! Keep up the good work!” Best cheerleader ever.
#7 Kristin Wiig in Bridesmaids
“There’s a colonial woman on the wing! She is churning butter! She is dressed in traditional colonial garment!”
#8 Team Meatballs
I don’t think they would have made the cut for this list if I hadn’t seen this week’s episode of Jersey Shore. If you haven’t seen Episode 8 of Season 5 yet, I recommend you do this immediately. In short, it went down like this. Deena and Snooki rented a blown up boat, put in the Atlantic Ocean, and simultaneously had two separate panic attacks (Deena’s because she thought there was a shark, Snooki’s because she thought she was going to lose her alcoholic beverage to the ocean), and flipped the boat over completely, then had life guards come out to save them, only to discover that they were in about 3 feet of water. If you have no intention of watching this, have good faith and believe me that it was tear-worthy.
Obviously, there are more than ten people in the world who I find ridiculously funny and entertaining, but these are the few who cross my mind regularly, who make me laugh out loud in class when thinking about them, and who I truly do aspire to be like. I want to be the funniest person I can be. It’s one of my most important goals in my self-improvement category, right along with joining the Glee cast and becoming a racecar driver. As I’ve made clear, this something I’m passionate about, love writing about, and truly love thinking about at all hours of the day. Humor, no matter which way you put it, is important. So make jokes. Even if they suck, you still get credit for trying. And you’ll get better. Just don’t be afraid, try doing things unpremeditated, and see sparkly things in shitty situations. Who knows, you might just wake up as a unicorn with all of this fun you’re having!
Upon reflection, it’s become quite obvious that the majority of my middle school and high school life was a complete embarrassment. The clear memories of certain moments, decisions, and looks of horror on my parents’ faces occasionally make me want to move to Alabama and go under the name of Mike Hancho, but I quickly try to forget them and move on with my day. Fortunately for me and the people I spend my time with, there are many personality traits that I’ve grown out of and dreams I’ve given up. For example, when I was in 8th grade I stood up at the dinner table and announced to my whole family that I’d like to share my top 10 insecurities, an idea I’d gotten from an MTV reality show that took place in a cliquey Midwest high school. Since my upper-middle class Bay Area existence was in direction correlation to the drama of a 16-year-old bulimic popular girl, I found this exercise relevant to my life. More than anything, it fed my undying crave for drama and attention that I apparently was deprived of as a child. In my 13-year-old eyes, I was neglected, and made sure to remind my parents of this at any opportunity possible.
This was one of those moments. I remember interrupting my dad’s sentence to inform my family that I had something to say, standing up at the table, pulling out a sheet of paper with a typed list of my insecurities, and watching my sister bang her head on the table in hopes she’d pass out before she had to listen to this. Although my sister and I are oddly obsessed with each other now, it was difficult to connect with her during our tween/teen years, mainly because I was a soap opera star in-the-making and she was normal.
I honestly don’t remember everything on that list, probably because I attempted self-brainwashing with the goal of erasing this humiliation from my memory. But, there is one that for whatever reason I haven’t forgotten. Really, I wish I had. But since it’s still in my head, might as well make fun of it now. And here it is: “I know that I will never be as cool or as popular or as pretty as Dani Ceegan”.
After making this statement in the most dramatic voice possible, I burst into tears (obviously) and watched as my entire family, including my 3-year-old brother, laugh at me. I never understood why. I was extremely offended that they would take something that was so blatantly hurtful to me and turn it into the most hilarious thing that’d happened to them since my last emotional breakdown. In reflection, it is now very clear to me why this was so funny to them. The first reason is this: much like most people I know, my family cannot take me seriously. Having a mother who was raised in a psychotic family in Midwest snow, and a father who grew up in America’s ghetto getting mugged every 3 days, it was difficult for them to have sympathy for my Marin JAP’y life. On top of that, they were used to these outbursts. And on top of that, Dani Ceegan was the last person that I should’ve aspired to be like, and they definitely knew that. Dani was a scary ginger with an overwhelming amount of orange freckles who was weirdly competitive and would violently put make up on me every time she told me I “was doing it wrong.” She was also a bully, and had no problem telling me I was the worst one on the softball team or looked fat in those jeans. The truth is, I was the worst one on the softball team. And looking back on it, I might have just looked fat in those jeans. But at the end of the day, I had normal people hair, and softball players are all lesbians with cottage-cheese legs (a direct quote from a river rafting tour guide who once led me and a bunch of other Jewish teenagers down a river- a mistake we didn’t have to make twice.)
These sporadic moments of attention-seeking actions and attempts at being cool continued throughout my high school career, always taking on new and creative forms. I think this all stemmed from my passionate belief that my mother was out to ruin my life. Firs of all, I was always fully convinced that my friend’s lives were 600 times better than mine. I use the number 600 because anything less wouldn’t have the dramatic effect I’m going for- see? I’ve still got it.
It became clear that my 15-year-old friends’ lives were 600 times more exciting than mine by bits of evidence I was able to collect. For example, Janet (my mother) wouldn’t let me hang out in the Safeway parking lot for hours on end with going-nowhere older guys, but Emma’s mom did. Clearly unfair. Morgan, who had recently divorced parents and had little to no supervision, was able to stay out all hours of the night with the San Francisco Russian crowd and date 25-year-olds. When asking Janet if I could hang out with Morgan’s recently found group of friends, the answer was no. Also clearly unfair. And worst of all, when I tried to convince her that my $32/week paycheck was enough to support myself and I didn’t want to live with her anymore because she was such a burden on my 15-year-old success, she also vito’d that plan. My mother was an overbearing tyrant, to say the least.
This overprotective child rearing was devastating to me. Janet’s sister once told me that the highlights of my life would be 8th grade and my senior year of high school, because those are the only times in life people get to be top dog. This naturally made me even more resentful towards Janet for ruining my best years I’ll ever get to live, ages 14 and 17.
I am truly not kidding when I tell you that my 45-year-old aunt said this to me in complete seriousness. At the time, I instantly became horrified in thinking I hadn’t properly prepared for these vital moments in my development. Now, I instantly become horrified thinking that my successful and intelligent aunt genuinely believed this, and truly hope she was just having a bad day.
After hearing this news, I started doing everything I could to be the coolest kid I could be. After several years of precise focus on straightening my hair and wearing the most padded DD push-up bra Victoria’s Secret had to offer, all I landed were bad grades, really slutty friends, and the majority of my fellow students calling me Teets. I was a joke and-a-half to put it nicely.
But, something sort of wonderful has miraculously come from this. Although I had many embarrassing qualities growing up, one that I’ve seemed to grow into is to take things a lot less seriously than they have to be. The truth is, I’ve come to learn, 8th grade was not the best time of my life. And neither was 12th. Turning 18 did not make me a mature adult, getting my license did not make me an independent woman, and a high school graduation is not necessary tear-worthy (something I was mildly horrified to find out when Janet sat bored throughout the entire ceremony). It’s not that I’m unappreciative or lack the ability to understand meaningful things. Trust me, Vinny coming back to Jersey Shore after leaving for two episodes was one of the most touching thing’s I’ve eve seen. But the truth is, most things just aren’t that big of a deal. Everything is only as dramatic and serious as you make it. In retrospect, I’m glad I chose to exaggerate my drama and everything I did throughout middle school and high school. It kept me occupied in my imagined Regina George-twin life, and my entire family extremely entertained. And now, I’m able to laugh. A lot. At everything. And I’d rather be doing that than crying over a softball playing ginger with cottage cheese legs. Wouldn’t you?
CTL.com butchered my latest article in their editing, and I’m pissed. Here’s the real thing, how it was meant to be.
Growing up with our families, we were all taught certain morals and ethics that we’re supposed to follow throughout our lives. Since college isn’t real life and it’s easier than ever to be bad people, we sometimes seem to forget that we have parents and choose to participate in activities that would make Grandma Pearl roll over in her grave. Here, I’d like to get us back in touch with our roots, partially in efforts to prepare for adulthood, but mainly to make ourselves feel better about our alcoholic and whore-like tendencies. Here we go.
Treat others the way you want to be to be treated.
You want people to smoke you out, give you free shots and hook you up with their hot friends, right? Then it should go without saying that you should reciprocate the favor. This is no different than kindergarten and sharing your toys on the play structure, except this time you’re sharing drugs and a sleeping bag to pass out on someone’s floor. Trust me, this is key to college happiness: support your friends in anything and everything they do, including any alcoholic direction they might be heading in. After all, you’d want them to do the same, right?
Love yourself and be confidant in who you are, regardless of how you look.
This mainly goes for freshmen, but in theory could be directed towards anyone. In college, for the first time in your life, your mom isn’t doing your grocery shopping for you. You suddenly have unlimited access to beer, dorm food nacho bars, and late night McDonalds runs. If you’re participating in any or all of these activities on a fairly regularly basis, most likely, you’re going up a jean size or three. But don’t worry, so is every other fat ass freshmen on your floor, so people will barely notice. Just remember to wear black, suck it in, and remain lying horizontally as much as possible.
Work hard and don’t give up.
I know college partying can seem exhausting, but it’s important that you stay dedicated and committed to the cause. This is only the beginning to a long journey ahead of you. A tip that may help you stay motivated in your alcoholic career is to set goals for yourself. For example, if you’re getting tired of taking the same six shots of some off-brand Smirnoff every time you go out, try taking eight or nine, or try switching to shot-gunning beers or Edward Fortyhands-ing it. There is a plethora of opportunity out there, my friends. Don’t be quitters!
Sharing is caring.
Slut it up. If you thought you got around in high school, welcome to big leagues, my fellow whores. People are significantly easier in college than in any other point in their lives, so don’t miss this prime opportunity. As Chelsea Handler has said, “sleeping around is a great way to get to know people.” Not only is this a guaranteed way to remain sexually active throughout college, but it’s also a fool-proof plan to make new friends. #twinning.
Get involved, and be a good sport.
Don’t be that kid who sits in the couch corner all night, sipping on a Natty Ice and listening to that blacked out girl complain about her latest nose piercing mishap. Be proactive and get involved. Make the blacked out bitch at least be your beer pong partner, or get a game on quarters going. Hell, you could even start a dance-off if you’re really feeling inspired. Doesn’t matter what you do, just do something. That’s what college is all about!
Let’s talk about Meatball Problems. If you don’t watch Jersey Shore then you probably won’t understand this reference, so I’ll give a brief explanation. Meatball problems are like regular people problems except exclusively for alcoholics under 5 feet tall. Some examples of this would be falling down an entire staircase, hiding in bushes for no apparent reason, or flashing your cooka to all of America- all crimes that have been committed by the true Team Meatballs themselves, Snooki and Deena. I’ve been suspicious for some time now that I also fall into the Meatball category. Unfortunately, after waking up on Saturday morning still in my dress from the night before and having a dime fall out of my vagina, I think it is confirmed. I have Meatball Problems, and I’m feeling pretty good about it.
Friday night was a disaster in the greatest way possible. Shabbat was crackin’, full of new faces, good food and wonderful music and friends. Thank God I pre-gamed it. A good friend of mine was visiting for the weekend, which gives me even more incentive to drink half a handle and grind on strangers. This combined with one of my classic black Snooki dresses is the perfect storm for drunken embarrassment. Let’s go.
After 11 shots and a round of beer pong, I filled my flask as we headed out the door to our friend’s party. The house was filled with Jews, most of whom I knew, and then of course, the token black guy.
This seems to be a reoccurring theme in Eugene party life- it’s 99% white people, and then there’s that one black guy who seems to fill every stereotype your white ass can come up with. You know what I’m talking about- the flat brim hats, baggy jeans and dance moves straight out of a BET music video? Yeah, that guy. And naturally, that’s the guy I ended up spending the next four hours with. Meatball Problems.
Similarly to Arabs, black guys and I totally hit it off. We were the only ones dancing at this party (Jews don’t really dance it public- it’s just awkward), and it got really ghetto really fast. After we walked it out and thizzle danced for a good two hours, he asked me if I wanted to go on a walk down the street. Naturally I agreed, but right when we got outside, he said it was way too cold. The truth is, it probably was in the 25-degree range. But thank God I drink- otherwise, I’d never go outdoors.
After we went back inside, I continued to harass my friends and allegedly talked shit about the same guy to everyone there. Poor guy. For some reason I felt the need to tell everyone that I slept with him and now he’s being an asshole. I especially made a note to give all the details to his best guy friends, who were also there. Meatball Problems.
I was getting bored with the Jews and went to go find my new black friend, who was probably smoking a Black ‘n Mild or eating a watermelon or something like that. I finally found him DJ’ing, where he proceeded to explain to me that I was “damn fine, and danced like a black girl”. I thanked my new friend and continued to grind up against a wall while poring shots out of my leopard print flask into a to-go shot glass. I know you thought I was classy before, but let me reassure you, it only goes downhill from here.
I then found the black guy’s friend, who was oddly white. Ria in fact accused him of being a neo-Nazi at one point, which apparently you can casually do. He was very pale and unusually bald for a 22-year-old, but was still somehow decent looking, the somehow most likely being drunk goggles. We started talking and found out we had a lot of random things in common, like how we’re both writers and are like sleeping with Jews. Clearly a match made in heaven. He suddenly made things very serious, which I was intrigued and mildly disturbed by. We’re at a party and I’m blacked out- why are you trying to talk to me about fate and how you suddenly thinks we’re meant to be together? Meatball Problems.
I finally found my friend Becca, who brought more disturbing news to me- not only was my black friend (who I had unconfirmed plans to jump on later that evening) 28-years-old, but he didn’t drink. At all. Meatball Problems.
I’ve coincidentally already hooked up with a 28-year-old black man in my life (read I Wanna Make Love in This Club), and it wasn’t something I was planning on participating in ever again. That was the first issue, but the second one was my bigger concern. What kind of a black man doesn’t drink? What kind of person in general doesn’t drink? In Chelsea Handler’s wise words, there are two kinds of people I don’t trust in this world: people who don’t drink and people who collect stickers.
It was then that I decided I needed to pass out. It was 3 AM and I had been blacked since 8, so I decided it was time to take a breather. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no quitter and will never give up in my alcoholic career. But being belligerent for 7 hours can do damage, and I wouldn’t want people to think I didn’t have my act together or anything.
We were climbing into a car to get a ride home, when I saw the driver trying to get my attention. His name was Cam, he’s a Jewish grad student, and I literally had never talked to him once in my life until that moment. “Girl, that black guy was about to be in you.”
“So glad we’re on that level now, Cam.” Meatball problems.
In attempt at becoming classier, I decided to switch from Smirnoff to Skyy, a vodka that’s much more expensive but gets you equally as drunk. Unfortunately, a pretty label won’t save you from embarrassment, which is why I continue to pull the exact same belligerent shit as I did when I was 15. And I will tell you, I am fine with this. This is what people don’t understand. People think it’s humiliating to get drunk and do things you wouldn’t soberly. I disagree. As Chelsea Handler thinks that sleeping around is a great way to get to know people (which I strongly agree with, for the record), heavy drinking has the same effect. I have made friends in elevators, in restaurants, at Shabbat services, on the street, and in my own house from simply being intoxicated. I don’t mean to toot my own horn or anything, but this is a practice I thrive in.
This doesn’t change when I’m around my friends, who although do fancy themselves the drinkers are nowhere near my level. A few weeks ago, all of the Jews got together for a pre-final’s week partay. Gatherings like this usually entail a mild amount of drinking, TV watching and awkward conversation about Ducks for Israel drama and/or the latest bets in the upcoming Hillel elections. You may have a hard time believing this, but this is my hell.
Any situation is tolerable when heavy drinking is involved, which is why heavy drinking immediately became involved. To my surprise, many people followed suit, and the humorless drama-addicted Jews that normally would have condescendingly asked if “I was feeling okay” when drinking were now acting like desperate drunken attention whores with no self control at all. I was thrilled. Although I rarely have a difficult time doing this soberly, it’s much easier to make fun of people when they’re wasted, because they make it so easy for you. They might as well have “I’m a drunk bitch, listen to me say really stupid and embarrassing shit so you can think less of me tomorrow” written on their foreheads.
This started with Bailey, who is soberly already slow and who I’ve questioned to be mildly retarded. She somehow gets drunk off of Andre, a cheap champaign that shouldn’t count as an alcoholic beverage based on its alcohol to sugar ratio. But, after one bottle that night, she became obnoxiously loud and threw her arms around me, telling me how much she loves me. “Oh my God, I am SOOOOO drunk! Hahahah! Lila, you aren’t drunk at all- get on my level, girl! Another Adre bottle killed by Bailey! Hahahah!”
Little did she know that I was eight shots deep and going strong. My friends often tell me I’m very composed when drunk, which is a major compliment, but also very surprising. If I’m so composed when drunk, I ask myself when I wake up the next morning sharing a sleeping bag with a stranger on a grungy floor of some frat house, then who’s the judge of composure? I certainly hope it’s Amy Winehouse or Linsday Lohan, but I have a strong feeling that’s not accurate.
Next, there was Heather, who had decided to conveniently lay down in the middle of the kitchen floor and cry. “GUUYYSSS! THE ROOM IS SPINNING!”, she wailed. I asked our friend Raina how many shots she’d had. “Two and a half,” she told me, “but she had a light dinner.”
These people were pathetic. I decided to go upstairs where my friend Cameron was hiding in his room working on his computer programming. “Stop being a nerd,” I harassed him. “Come downstairs.”
“No. It’s too loud. Go down and make sure nothing is broken, okay? I really need to finish this animated character I’ve been working on.”
“I can’t believe I call you people my friends,” I said before slamming the door and heading back downstairs.
Things were becoming very unnecessary very fast. Raina and I were so bored that we decided to take everything from each bathroom on both floors and switch them as a prank. There are few times that I feel motivated to do things like this. All of these times, excluding this one, took place when I was under the age of seven.
After this, my friend Ria and I kept exchanging looks of disgust while watching everyone’s intoxication levels increase, while simultaneously doing Pepperment Patties to keep our own drunkenness at the level we wanted. There are very few people in the UO Jewish community that I have 100% tolerance for, and Ria makes the cut every time. She’s just my favorite. One of the great things about Ria is that regardless of how whore-like, mean or drunk I become, she’s always by my side. And I do the same for her. This is a real friend. The rest of you are quitters.
Cameron had made his way downstairs after his realization that he should probably participate in his own party, but then left his house all together when Heather had belligerently tried to hold his hand and kiss him. Ria and I found much entertainment in this, because it proved once again that Jews are awkward. This night went on for several more hours until many people were throwing up, which naturally is my cue to take pictures and then leave.
Although this story is less eventful than most, there is still a moral to it. Never feel sorry for yourself or take life too seriously. I promise, promise promise you, there are always others that will always take the cake before you do. In the mean time, have fun. As Snooki once said, “Get it all out, freaking do everything that you can, have sex with an old man and steal a plant and get arrested and then do whatever.” So laugh at your friends, and more importantly, laugh at yourself. This is what college is for!
You know that moment when you decide you’ll never make that mistake ever again, for the sake of your own safety, reputation and self-respect? The realization that you regret your actions enough to never let it happen again? Well, this is not one of those moments. For normal people, embarrassing yourself in a particular situation tends to stop you from ever doing it again. For me, it’s adding fuel to the fire. I thrive off of doing stupid things. This is particularly exciting for me when it includes strangers who I never have to see or speak to again, but who I can use for a short amounts of time for purely my own enjoyment. For this reason, some would call me a bitch. This includes myself. But lesbionist, I make you smile, and at the end of the day, I do it for you. Your welcome.
I’ve said before that I find it best to drink in most situations. I find myself saying “pre-game life” more than I do my own name. Sorryboutit, that’s just my style. I was in DC over winter break for a leadership conference for college students, hosting over 300 Jews between the ages of 18 and 23 from all over the country. If you know anything about me, you understand why this situation is what I would call the ultimate success.
After our sessions were over for the day, everyone scattered to bars around the DC area, many of whom ended up at one bar near the hotel we were staying at. It was a hole-in-the-wall nothing bar with overpriced drinks and an evil bouncer, but because it was packed with some of the most successful Jewish men I’d ever have the chance to interact with, I decided to make an appearance.
Of course, I stumbled upon the one group of men at this bar that couldn’t have been further from the Tribe. I still haven’t quite figured out why this is, but Arab men always take a liking to me. When intoxicated, I also seem to take liking to them, which I also couldn’t explain to you. If you haven’t figured this out on your own yet, it’s easier to just accept me than question why I do what I do. I wouldn’t want you to spiral into a stress-induced depression on my account.
It started when someone bumped into me and almost knocked me off of the bar stool I was sitting on. “I am sooo sorry!” said an Arabic accent coming from above me. “All good!” I slurred. When I looked up to see that this guy was in my age range, tan, and decent looking, I decided to allow our conversation to continue.
“Where are you from?” he asked me.
“California. Where are you from? Let me guess: Egypt!” With my extensive background and experience with Egyptian men, I thought I had this one in the bag. Adding another Egyptian man to my roster would certainly be one for the books. Unfortunately, I was wrong.
“Close,” he answered. “Libya! Have you been to that region before?” This is always a dangerous moment when interacting with Arabs. I get this question from them a lot, because they think I’m one of them and hope I say yes so that we have something to talk about. The truth is, I have been to the region. I’ve been to Israel a few times and am planning on living there all of next year. Unfortunately, you never know how Arabs will react to this news, as many of them are not down with Israel and think terrorism is the shit. However, in my belligerent state, I always enjoy some controversy. I also like making people feel uncomfortable. Let’s go.
After telling my latest Arab love interest that not only had I been to Israel, but was a strong pro-Israel activist, he looked at me as if I had just told him I had given birth to a pelican. He didn’t know what to say. Finally, he came up with this. “But I don’t understand- you’re so beautiful! How could you possibly be one of them?” Although most Jews and pro-Israel folks would walk away in disgust or call the police, I take comments like this as an opportunity to change people’s views. If flirting with Hamas-supporting Muslims is what I have to do to heal the Israeli-Arab peace conflict, then so be it.
The conversation went on for about an hour, going back and forth on different Middle Eastern issues from the past year. Finally, I was getting board, and needed to change the subject quickly. It was 3 AM by this point and was getting close to my passing out time.
“I have to go soon,” I told him, “but I really hope you like me! I am Jewish, but I’m also super fun!”
“Wow,” one of his friends said who had been part of our conversation, “you are right. We have never met a Jew before. Now I see that you can actually be really nice people. Your government is bad, but your people are good.”
“Can a Libyan man kiss a Jewish girl?” asked the one who had initially knocked me off my bar stool.
After making out with my new Libyan ally, I grabbed my friend Nessa to get out of there. She had been talking to a 30-year-old black male therapist for an hour, who had been analyzing why she couldn’t get a boyfriend and everything that was wrong with her. Naturally, Nessa jumped at the opportunity to leave the conversation when I told her it was time to peace out. When she saw the Arabs I had been talking to, she instantly became scared and concerned for our safety. “Lila, who are these guys??” she asked. “They look like terrorists!”
Nessa is Guatemalan and has had little experience or interaction with the Jewish/Israeli community in her lifetime. Because of this, I wasn’t surprised at all by her reaction. For those of us who have been to Israel and/or spent their entire high school career partying in sleazy hookah bars, we understand Middle Eastern male culture, and in some sick way have taken a liking to it. For this reason, I do not only feel safe around Arabs, but embrace them. While I was doing this, Nessa was climbing into a cab.
I followed suit, giving my terrorist boyfriend one last kiss before getting in the taxi. “Nessa, I spent all of my money on alcohol. I don’t have cash to split this taxi with you; I thought we were walking back.”
“Like I give a shit. I’d rather pay for a $10 cab ride than be sold into Hezbollah,” she responded.
“Please, Nessa. You are so judgmental. They’d pick Hamas over Hezbollah any day.”
During my three years at CJHS, I was on CJHS’s varsity dance team, Impulse Control. I had come up with this name my sophomore year when thinking it’d be a good idea to be called something else besides Jewish Girls Trying To Dance. No one knew quite what Impulse Control meant or now it applied to us at all, but we thought it sounded pretty intense so we decided to go with it. From our perspective, the name I.C carried a lot of weight around the CJHS hallways. Although this might have been an imagined ego-booster, we were certainly known as the sassiest, classiest, and badassiest members of the CJHS community. Naturally, this was something I was very, very proud to be a part of.
Athletics are not one of the Jewish people’s strong points. No one would argue this, except for possibly my father, Matt, who thinks his Jewish softball league is the greatest invention since indoor plumbing. “We’re going to kick the ortho team’s butt!” he told me one day on the phone. “They’ll be tripping over their long skirts and pais the whole game- we’ll have SUCH an advantage!”
“Keep up the good work, dad.” I said before hanging up on him.
The Jewish people have many unique qualities and skills, some examples being arguing, drinking, and Ultimate Frisbee. However, competitive sports certainly do not fit into this category. Because of this, the most well-known and talented team at our high school was the varsity dance team. This may sound cool and impressive, but let me promise you, it’s just as lame as it sounds. Between the orthodox rabbi’s son being the baseball team’s leading pitcher and the basketball team’s captain throwing chairs across the court during games due to his severe anger problems, we didn’t have a lot of competition. Not to mention, the Director of Athletics had the intelligence of Lindsay Lohan when O.D’d.
“Yeah, guys,” Coach Kjar said in his mono-tone voice at the Athletic Department Awards assembly, “Everyone did real well this year. Everyone worked real hard. I’m real proud of yall. Keep up the good work. Go Wolves.”
“Thanks, idiot. You’re real fucking inspirational”, I said to myself/the entire row I was sitting in. With no support at all from the Athletics Department in terms of funding or help finding us a real coach, we were forced to do it on our own. This was near to impossible due to the fact that the members of I.C. were as difficult and confusing as The Situation learning how to read. It just wasn’t going to happen.
We were sitting in the dance room in a circle, brainstorming what we wanted to do with ourselves. And when I say what we wanted to do, I mean with everything- where we should look for a coach, what we should wear as uniforms, what we should perform, what we needed to choreograph, and why this team even existed. The biggest challenge was going to be figuring this all out together.
Braneslava Davidavna Chereschkaya (pronounced Brana-slava Daveed-avna Chereh-skya) was by far my favorite person on the team. She was a straight-off-the-boat Russian, which I loved. Straight-off-the-boat Russians took up about 50% of my high school, so it was a clearly a serious invasion that most of the time I was extremely uncomfortable with. They were a tremendously sketch collection of people, and led me to believe that they were running some serious human trafficking/mafia shit that they just weren’t filling me in on. These suspicions came from many clues that I had gathered over the years, such as having Russian accents, wearing designer clothes and having last names such as Shkurko, Puyandaiv, and Kostukovsky. And, most of their first names were either Alexander or Alexandria, which was also questionable.
Although I never had any hard evidence of this illegal activity, I was confident in my gut feeling and informed the entire student body of my theory, including the Russians. It was always a priority of mine to make sure everyone was on the same page and up to speed with my opinions. I wouldn’t want anyone to feel excluded.
Braneslava Davidavna Cherschkaya, however, was different. She’s special one, probably because I’m very comfortable making fun of her, and the rest of the Russians just scare me. “B-Slav, what are your thoughts on the matter?” I asked about the future of the Dancing Jews.
The truth is, I never cared what Brana’s thoughts were. I just enjoyed being able to use her different nicknames at any opportunity possible. To keep you all in the loop, I’ll give you the list now so you don’t get confused. Braneslava Davidavna Chereschkaya’s nicknames: Brana, B-Slav, Bran-Bran, Broon-Broon, Broonie Pie, Bronicles, Broonicles. My personal favorites are probably Broonie Pie and Bronicles. Bronicles wouldn’t have normally made the cut, but my 8-year-old brother came up with it and he’d be extremely offended if I didn’t appreciate it as much as he did. “Lila, how was Bronicle’s day at school today?” was a question he often asked before asking how my day was. “Oh, Broonie Pie had a great day, Miles,” I’d reply. “Thanks for asking.”
However, my choice in nickname-calling differed depending on my mood. If I was mad at her, usually for acting in her Russian ways or talking about her nephew, Peace, I would call her by her whole name. “That’s enough out of you, Braneslava Davidavna Cherschkaya,” I would yell at her, “Who names their kid Peace anyway? That doesn’t sound very Russian. Once you get that situation figured out, get back to me.”
If I was in a great mood, however, I would call her by all of her names. “Bronicles Broonie Pie B-Slav Broonsicles Bran-Bran Broon-Broon Braneslava Davidavna Cherschkaya!” I’d say, jumping into her arms. “I love you, you big ol’ Russian!”
This happened much more rarely than the first scenario. In fact, it might have happened once in my three years of knowing her. It probably would have been a more frequent occurrence if I wasn’t so scared of catching the Russian Disease.
“Well,” B-Slav responded to my question, “I think I.C should go in more of a ballroom direction. In the Russian community, ballroom is a very well respected and practiced form of dance, and I’d be more than happy to teach everyone some routines.”
She was right; the Russians were all about their ballroom. While everyone else’s Facebook profile pictures were of them smiling, or in my case, belligerent with their friends, the Russians’ profile pictures were of them in sequined underwear and heels, bent over some guy’s arm with their cooka hanging out for the world to see. Although out of context this does seem like an activity that would normally appeal to me, I am very biased and the plain fact that this operation was being run by Russians was something I simply could not support.
“Damnit, Braneslava Davidavna Cherschkaya,” I said, agitated, “For the last time, we are not bringing your Russian schemes into this dance team. Do you understand that? No ballroom.”
“Haahahahhahhahahhhahahh!”, said Morgan, grabbing my arm to control her laughter. “Good one, B-Slav. NOT. Ballroom sucks.”
Whenever I think I’ve made myself look like a jackass, I’m always grateful to have Morgan by my side to one up me. Now Morgan looked like an even bigger asshole than I did, and I loved her for it.
“Guys, ballroom is beautiful. Broonie Pie is right, it’s a very popular art form in our community,” chimed in Avi. Avi was the whore of Russian society, and everyone knew it. Because of this detail in her life, and the fact that she couldn’t count to ten if her life depended on it, her opinions tended to go in one ear and out the other. Her input was valued as much as Chelsea Handler values water as a legitimate beverage source- not at all. However, she provided us with endless entertainment, primarily from her made up stories about George Bush personally giving her an extended green card because of how intelligent he found her. Wow, I thought when she first told me this. And I thought I was desperate for people to take me seriously.
“Absolutely not,” said Ashley. Luckily, Ashley actually took this team seriously. I did too, but my inability to do anything without turning into at least somewhat of a joke prevented me from being on her level. Without her sternness and ability to shut down all meaningless ideas we had, such as installing stripper poles into the dance room (Avi) or buying costumes involving sparkles and leather (a team idea, really), it’s a scary thought to think where we would be. I never admitted this to anyone, but I was fully aware of the fact that these ideas deserved to be destroyed along with the people who suggested them. The difference, however, is that I fully support people’s stupidity and lack of mental functionality, and find true enjoyment in the results of these defects. Ashley, on the other hand, for some reason wants to spend her time productively.
“Be serious, guys. Clearly, we are not bringing ballroom into this team.” B-Slav’s face sunk immediately when hearing this, which Ashley noticed, but kept talking anyway. “This team is strictly hip-hop. The main thing we need to focus on right now is finding a coach. Now, I was thinking we should hire Darrell. He’s simply the best and I think he’d be a great addition to the team.”
Darrell is a black sassy gay man who I’ve never actually met but have heard enough stories about to write a biography on. Ashley and Ellen were obsessed with him, and jumped at the opportunity to talk about him anytime someone took a yawning break. He was Ashley and Ellen’s dance coach at their other studio, and is one of the most well known coaches in the Bay Area. They genuinely thought they were close friends with him and knew him really well, as if their parents weren’t spending thousands of dollars to get them into his classes. Obviously Ashley’s idea was extremely unrealistic, and I was going to be the one to made that clear.
“Dumb.” I probably could have said more to defend this statement, but saw it as pointless due to the fact that I had already offended Ashley and Ellen and there was no turning back now. They both shot me a look that resembled the face of a cougar about to attack an antelope. I have received this look on several occasions, usually after publicly laughing at serious stories or drunkenly hooking up with people’s significant others. When situations like this occur and I receive that look, I simply explain to them that it’s important to keep the bigger picture in mind and understand that most of my actions come from a place of alcoholism, not my morals.
After much debate on who we should get as our coach, we landed on Julia, Brandy’s sister. Brandy was the CJHS slut, and she wasn’t even a student. She was a faculty member whose job title was awfully broad and was open to a lot of interpretation. In the year book our sophomore year in the faculty section, I’m pretty sure it said “Brandy: Staff Support”. You can take that as you like, but if you ask me, this supposed “staff support” includes lunchtime blowjobs for any department on the sign-up sheet.
Let me make it clear that this is not a theory that I invented in my head (as I have been accused of many times). There was much proof to this. From our observations, she seemed to be the primary supervisor of the barbeque club, which by the way, was an all male group. She also seemed to be an awfully close mentor to a male student at our school, who will remain nameless because 1) she could get sued for statutory rape, and 2) I honestly can’t remember his name right now.
She also insisted on dressing like a sixteen-year-old slut. I was able to pull off this look because I was in fact a sixteen-year-old slut, but she was thirty-something and was having a hard time realizing it. She was constantly complimenting me on my outfits and would tell me how she wished she had my boobs. I remember thinking one day how she must really wish she were 16 again. And not just any 16-year-old, but she sort of wished she was me. Fuck, I thought. That might be the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard in my life.
Anyway, back to Brandy’s sister. The following years with Julia as our coach were at times enjoyable, but most of the time made us want to hurt her. She forced us to put moves into our routines that resembled leaping frogs and swaying elephant trunks, bringing much embarrassment to our team. She at times made me turn into a bipolar schizophrenic, driving me to write hate letters to my fellow teammates. Instead of taking my anger out on her and the team as a whole, I always blamed it on one girl, Heather. Maybe I hated her because of the reasons addressed below, but I have a strong inclination that it also related to the fact that her little brother was a huge asshole who I couldn’t bring myself to stop hooking up with. This made me extremely resentful towards their entire family. I will never forget the Facebook message I wrote to Hannah one year, honestly out of nowhere.
I cannot stand you being our captain, or being on the team at all. You are a terrible dancer, and the worst part is, you think you’re the best. If you were terrible and openly realized it, I would accept that. But, you think you’re the shit, and you suck. You also have zero leadership capabilities and no one takes you seriously. In my opinion, it’s in your best interest to leave the team immediately. I think you’re a terrible addition to this team and to our school community, and that’s the nicest thing I can say about you. I can’t stand you, Hannah. You are so annoying. Please do something to fix this before I come up with foolproof plan to have you expelled. Thank you!
Being close with Brandy, the faculty whorebag, she showed this letter to her to get me in trouble. I received a notification later that day that Brandy needed to meet with me.
“Lila, I understand you sent Heather a very rude Facebook message…” Brandy started. I could tell she wanted me to take her seriously as an authoritative figure, but she could tell that that wasn’t going to happen. “But, between you and me, girlfriend, I completely agree. Hannah is a terrible dancer…she needs to become sexier in her movies!”
When people ask me what my favorite part about CJHS was in the future, I’ll be sure to mention their astounding choice in faculty leadership, their diverse student population and heavy number of Russians, and inability to make any of it function at all.
It was my first weekend at the University Oregon and I was trying to lose my college party virginity. Although I had lied for many years about being in college for a variety of different reasons, I had never actually been to a college party, and was completely unequipped. Firstly, the cutest outfit I could come up with for my first night out was a pair of old blue jeans and a red striped sweater, with some old dirty Vans to top it off. I cannot speak for other institutions of higher education, but for anyone who has been to a U of O party, you know that the standard attire for females is close to nothing. This was before my obsession with little black dresses (which now takes up the majority of my closet space), so I showed up like this.
I went with a few friends who I had previously known before college, Jake being one of them. For all of you who will ever have the opportunity to meet Jake: run away immediately. He will suck you in like a Venus Fly Trapper, completely convincing you that the advice he is offering is seriously going to change your life for the better. Some examples of this would be hooking up with his Catholic/Jewish recorder-playing roommate, befriending Egyptian men, and drinking two 4 Loko’s at a time. He also makes a note of saying that it nothing to do with his personal amusement at all. From someone who has been the target of his scheming on several occasions, I can assure you that this is false.
The truth is, I have the same trait as Jake, and in many situations we have combined forces to bring people to their ultimate self-humiliation. However, when I am the target, I seem to be oblivious to his plans, and once again, my life turns into a huge joke.
On this particular night, Jake surprisingly had nothing in mind. He was also new to college parties, and was more distracted by kids being arrested on the street and drunk bitches running around naked to worry about me.
We were wasted as usual, and having a super time at this dance partay. “Lena!” Jake yelled at me in the middle of our dance-off that no one else was participating in. “Turn around! Someone’s checking you out!”
This moment defined many of my future blacked out weekends to come. The guy looking at me was a little Irish looking man with freckles and blond hair. He was wearing a flannel, jeans, and white Vans, which was embarrassingly similar to what I was wearing. We were matching, and it was making me extremely self-conscious. I honestly can’t picture what he looks like exactly, as this was one of my blacked out evenings. But I do remember that he was adorable. He was probably two inches taller than me and looked awfully fragile. I remember wondering if he thought he could handle all this woman.
When he saw that I had noticed him, he came up to me and introduced himself. He appeared to be a tad drunk, but in the sweetest, most awkward way. “Hey! I’m Danny,” he said with a big smile on his face.
“I saw you from over there,” he informed me as he pointed to the corner of the room where he had been standing 30 seconds before.
“Yeah. I saw you.”
“You’re really pretty.”
“Thank you! So are you.”
“Thanks! Want to dance?”
Jake had watched this whole interaction and was loving every second of it. After some time, he then decided to leave us alone and went to go find our other friends in the house, so I handed him my sweatshirt like the servant he is and sent him on his way. As he was walking away, he kept shooting me looks of positive influence that said, “What if he’s the one??”
I had a sneaking suspicion that my new Irish friend was not a Jew. But, in my drunken thoughts I imagined that there might be some chance that this guy could be my future husband. Thanks to Jake and his persuasive looks, this thought drove me to make out with him. I will admit that this probably would have occurred even if Jake had not instigated it, but I find it easier to take myself seriously if I blame this incident on him.
This decision is not one that I have ever regretted, but instead wonder how different my life would be if this had never happened. This is a moment that, in my opinion, is more than worthy of a Baruch HaShem.
After this evening, my Irish friend had really taken a liking to me. He kept telling me how pretty I was, and I kept telling him that he was prettier. We were hitting it off great. Unfortunately it was way past my passing out time, so we exchanged numbers and parted ways. The next morning, I woke up with a new contact in my phone: Danny Party.
About a month later, I had forgotten about this incident and had moved on to developing a secret crush on another Danny who was from Chicago. I have a cousin who lives in Chicago who I had a crush on for a long time, and ever since my mom told me it would never work out between us, I’ve been on the hunt to find someone from Illinois who I could get it on with legally.
Like most things in my life, this didn’t stay a secret for very long. This is partially because I have an unhealthy tendency to share everything that makes me look like an idiot, and also because I have Jake as a friend. Although Jake usually doesn’t have to work hard to get good information out of me, when he does he gets it all and uses it for everything it’s worth.
“You’re down for Danny?!?” Jake said to me after he caught me eye raping him at a party one night . “I love it. Make it a mission, Lena. You’ve got this one.”
“You really think so, Jake??” I asked pathetically.
“Definitely. I will help you with this one. The first step, though, is for him to find out.”
Naturally, within hours Danny was fully aware of my bizarre and out of nowhere crush on him. And it was completely bizarre- Danny and I had been friends for a while and no one ever saw this coming, including myself. It certainly didn’t help the awkwardness of the situation when I got drunk multiple times and repeatedly came on to him, him of course having no interest at all.
This might have been the most humiliating experience of my life. I am a strong believer in never being the initiator in situations like this, and until Danny I never had. But, what can I say. He was hot, and he sort of looked like my cousin.
After coming to terms with how stupid I had made myself look, I sent him an apology text. In my phone his name was Danny Chicago, which I had put in when I first met him the summer before. I had thought this was a valid last name possibility considering his background, so I never bothered to change it or learn what his real last name was.
To: Danny Chicago. “Danny, I’m an idiot. We all know this. Please forgive me for my embarrassing behavior and love me for who I am.”
From: Danny Chicago. “OK, Snooks. No worries. All good.”
Although my outward creepiness had gone away, my inner creepiness was thriving. I had successfully managed to divert people’s attention away from my drama and towards others, and was now free to love Danny secretly while not being made fun of at the same time. This was a brilliant concept that I had never successfully pulled off before, but so far it was going great.
After two months of loving Danny from a far, I had made zero progress in my mission to make him fall in love with me. Although this was disappointing and discouraging, I remained secure in my self-confidence and stayed strong in my drinking patterns. I also made sure I was constantly distracted from this upsetting reality by hooking up with strangers. So far, I was on a healthy path to recovery.
That weekend, I followed my usual routine of drinking excessively, dressing like a slut and then acting like one. I was on a roll. I was at a party with my good friends Alica and Adrina, and was trying to kidnap the host’s pet turtles when I got a text from Danny. “Hey, want to meet up?”
“Jesus, Danny! Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?!” was my initial thought when receiving this text. I had been contemplating the consequences of stealing these turtles for several months now. I eventually decided there were none, since the owners of the house had no idea who I was, and even if they did, who would get mad at me? The most likely scenario would be for them to feel sorry for me since I’d even want to steal their smelly old turtles, and then they’d probably give them to me in sympathy when realizing how pathetic I am.
I then realized the severity of the situation: DANNY JUST TEXTED ME. He had finally come around and realized that I was the perfect woman for him! I secretly knew this would always happen! I immediately texted back and said “Just at a party with Adrina and Alexa, going to leave soon…how about you?”
I then told Alexa and Adrina that it was time to bounce. When they asked why, I told them Danny wanted to meet up. They were both very excited for me since they knew I had liked him, and agreed to leave the party with me. However, Alexa was drunk and hungry and trying to get her Dough Co on. In case you are unaware of what Dough Co is, it is Eugene’s center for late-night drunchies. It’s a calzone restaurant that is open till 3 AM, which is a smart business move on their part since people are much more willing to buy overpriced food in mass qualities when they’re wasted.
“Damnit, guys!!!! Dough Co isn’t answering their phone!!!” Alexa yelled at us in the angriest voice possible as we were walking home. Alexa had a scary tendency to go bipolar when she was drunk, turning from the sweetest girl I know to a demon when intoxicated. “WHAT THE FUCK??!??”
Although I’m normally terrified of Alexa when this happens, I was too excited that Danny had texted me to notice. “Uh huh,” I said back to Alexa as I was texting Danny asking him where he wanted to meet.
“Damnit, Lena!!! Pay attention! Dough Co ISN’T ANSWERING MY CALLS!!!”
“Yes, Alexa. I heard you the first time. How about you just walk to Dough Co and tell them in person what you’d like to order. I’m sure they’ll pay attention to you then.”
Now it was just Adrina and I, as had Alexa decided to storm off to Dough Co on her own. “So where are you meeting him?” Adrina asked me.
“I don’t know. He wants to meet in front of Lillis on campus then go to his place.”
“Lena, it’s two in the morning. You’re not walking to the middle of campus by yourself. Tell him to meet you at Riley.”
Riley was the dorm building we lived in, but was better known as the Shit Show. The Shit Show was always providing me with quality entertainment, usually revolving around people throwing up, walking in on people having sex, or a combination of the two. I felt blessed to be assigned to live in the Shit Show, as I fit right in and saw it as the perfect home for me.
Text to Danny: “Meet me at Riley in 20. Can’t meet you on campus.”
Text from Danny: “Sounds good, see you soon.”
I was overwhelmed with excitement and joy. Between Danny trying to get in my pants and me breaking the drunken seal several hours before, I was about to pee myself right then and there. “Jesus, Lena,” Adrina said to me as I was walking behind a dumpster to relieve myself, “We’re five minutes away from the Shit Show. Can’t you wait?”
We finally made it to the Riley bathrooms on our floor, and I had to go pronto. “Adrina, hold my phone! I don’t want to pee on it,” I announced as I tossed my phone to her before heading into the stall. It was five minutes before Danny was supposed to meet me, and I was as giddy as can be. I started singing the Secret Life of The American Teenager theme song when Adrina yelled to me, “Lena, Danny Party says he’ll be downstairs in a minute and needs to be let into the building.”
“Wait, what?” I asked, confused. “Who’s Danny Party?”
“Like I fucking know. I have a hard enough time keeping up with your rando’s.”
“Wait a second, Lena…you have two Danny’s in your phone. Danny Party and Danny Chicago. Who’s who?”
I was still sitting on the toilet with my thong at my feet, having the same thought running through my head over and over again: my life.
“So here’s the deal, Adrina,” I said as I began banging my head against the wall, “you’re telling me that I’ve been texting Danny Party this whole time.”
“Danny Chicago has NOTHING to do with this.”
“I hate myself.”
I finally mustered up the energy to leave the bathroom stall and walk into the hallway with Adrina. I was devastated, and decided the most immediate way to fix this mess would be to stop responding to Danny Party’s calls, even though he was probably standing at the locked door of our building waiting for me. Whatever.
In the hallway there were many Shit Show residents, many of whom I love dearly. I was very glad they were there to comfort me in my time of need, however they found the situation much funnier than I did. “No way, Snooks!!!” said Brohan, who happened to be very close friends with Danny Chicago and Jake, and had also heard about my evening with Danny Party the month before. “You thought you were texting O’Malley the whole time??” Great, I thought. I finally know his last name.
“Yes, Brohan, I did. How could something like this happen to me?”
“…Are you serious?”
He was right. If anyone was going to be unintelligent enough to make this mistake and then go along with it for over two hours, it would definitely be me. But still, even I was surprised by my lack of awareness in this situation, regardless of my alcohol intake that evening.
“It’s all good, Lena,” Jake said to me on the phone that night when I called him to tell him the news. “All this means is that you and Danny Party are meant to be. I hope he continues to contact you in the future and that you give him another chance.”
Thanks to Jake’s blessing, Danny Party did continue to text and call me for about six months following this event. As time went on, my vision of what he looked like became more and more blurry to me. But, it really didn’t matter. The concept of Danny Party became a game to me, and it turned out to be very amusing. If I was ever bored, drunk, or just needing some entertainment, I’d text him asking what he as up to. I’d always immediately get a text back, which made me feel very good about myself. These texting conversations went on for many months and forged a bond between us, but we never actually met up or saw each other again. The reality was, I had a fan out there who I never actually had to reciprocate the feelings towards, or even know what he looked like. And this to me, I decided, was the best relationship I could ask for.
Shabbat comes, and with it comes the Friday night of Halloweekend. Although some would call it sacrilegious to celebrate Halloween after attending a Shabbat service, I’d call it quite the opposite- having fun, including but not limited to sex, alcohol, and parties, is a Jewish commandment, is it not?
Anywho, it began after Shabbat services when I went over to my good friend Jenna’s to pre-game for our friend Jacob’s Halloween party. Although Jenna is very much a Jew, her three roommates are absolutely not, which brings much hilarity to me. One of her roommates, Kasey, is an ultra-blond shiksa from southern California who knows as much about Jews as I know about Pagan practices in Mexico. She’s completely clueless about this Jewy world that I live in, and is fascinated that there are people who exist that actually grow horns. Regardless of her lack of knowledge of the Tribe, I still very much appreciate her and have never loved a non-Jew so much until this night. Although I barely know you, Kasey, keep it up girl. You are truly on a roll.
I didn’t know what to dress up as that night, so I went with the simplest option of wearing one of my many black dresses and then putting on cat ears to turn it into a costume. This is another gem quality of Halloween- you can dress as whorey as you want and then turn it into some sort of animal to make it acceptable. Thank you, Mean Girls, for teaching me wisely.
Kasey, Jenna, and their other roommates put together similar costumes. After heavily pregaming, we all belligerently headed to our friend’s party as I continued to discuss with Kasey the conversion process, which in her drunken state she seemed quite interested in. On the way, there were two girls walking in front of us, and I heard one of the girls say to her friend something about being Jewish. As the new Hillel Engagement intern, it’s naturally my responsibility to find non-involved Jews and bring them into the Hillel cult, which is exactly what I proceeded to do. “Excuse me???” I slurred to her, tapping her on the shoulder. “I just overheard your conversation- Are you Jewish?”
“No way,” she said back, “I was just saying how Jews are cheap with their money and are obsessed with Seinfeld and sometimes look kinda funny.”
Okay. If you ask the people I associate myself with, they will tell you that I am not a fighter. I am a lover. This is the truth, or was, until this bitch decided to say all of the wrong things to the wrong person. I tolerate many comments, my friends, but talking shit on the Tribe is not one of them. As Snooki once wisely said, “We might be little bitches, but I swear, you say that again, and I’ll come at you like a squirrel monkey.” Coincidentally, this is exactly what I proceeded to do.
“What the fuck did you just say bitch?!? KEEP WALKING.” I politely requested of her. I honestly expected her to move on and be done with it, but she was apparently enjoying this conversation and was trying to keep it up.
“Look, I’m only saying what I know, okay? And you know it’s true. Those Jews. Wait…are you Jewish?” her facial expression suddenly changed from a fun conversation to fear of being curb stomped. This is when the squirrel money in me truly came out.
I never thought I’d hear these words in my life unless I was watching Bad Girls Club, but then before I knew it, it was happening. “YOU WANNA GO, BITCH?!??!? I’LL FUCKING KICK YOUR ASS RIGHT NOW! LET’ FUCKING GO, YOU ANTI-SEMETIC CUNT!”
Before even looking around to see if my friends had abandoned me in embarrassment, my shiksa girl Kasey came to back me up. “YEAH BITCH, WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!? JEWISH PEOPLE ARE AWESOME! LET’S GO RIGHT NOW!” She and I started jumping up and down and wailing our arms in the air, and of course continued yelling at her to keep the spirits up.
I then decided to run ahead to catch up with her. By this point she had realized her mistake and was making quick distance in order to prevent being jumped by two confused and belligerent white girls. As I start to speed up, I felt Kasey pulling my arms behind me. “I’M HOLDING YOU BACK, GIRL! CALM DOWN! I GOT YOU! SHE AIN’T WORTH IT! SHE AIN’T WORTH IT!”
“BUT SHE DOESN’T LIKE JEWS!!!!” I yelled as I tried to release myself from her grasp. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE WORLD!?!”
“Bitch, I don’t know. What I do know, though, is that Jews are AWESOME, and I kinda wish I was one! Don’t listen to her- we’re better than that! Jew power!!!!” Thanks for the inspirational talk, Kasey.
We then went to Jacob’s party, where I proceeded to cry when I saw him hooking up with another girl. I’ve never had feelings for Jacob and consider him to be one of my very close friends, but for whatever reason, I decided in that moment that I loved him, and he should be making out with me. Jenna and I went up to them to say hi, when I then said to Jacob, “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Uh, doing what?” he asked confused.
“I LOVE YOU! How could you do this??!”
Luckily for me, Jenna picked up on this self-destructive fake love confession and intervened. “JACOB!” she said, scooting me over so that I’d stop talking to him. “What a great party!”
I was then left to talk to the girl he was just sucking face with, and really had no interest in conversing with her. I looked her up and down, and had a sneaking suspicion that she was not a Jew. So, of course my immediate question was, “What are you?”
“Oh, I’m a police woman! Hahaha! I just got this costume yesterday!”
“No, bitch, I mean what are you. Where did you come from and how do you know Jacob.”
“Oh, uh…well my parents are from India, but I’m from Portland…and I just met him, like, ten minutes ago. He’s so sweet!”
“…Jenna, we’re leaving.”
“Jesus, Lila, what the hell was that all about?” Jenna asked me as we walked away and to find Kasey. “Since when do you have feelings for Jacob?”
And then the drunky tears came.
“OH MY GOD, JENNA!” I started sobbing. “HOW COULD HE DO THIS TO ME???! I REALLY THOUGHT WE HAD A CONNECTION!”
“Really? Since when? I think you should calm down and we can talk about this tomorrow,” she calmly responded.
“No way, fuck this,” I whimpered, “I’m going to CP.”
“Lila, you should really write a story about your 19th birthday. I can’t believe you haven’t blogged about it yet!” Hadas said on the phone last night as I was simultaneously painting my nails and watching Jersey Shore.
“Don’t remember it. What happened.”
Thank you for keeping me young, Hadas WV.
The sad part is, I’m still 19. This was less than a year ago. But fortunately for you all I have no shame and am more than happy to share my embarrassments. Let’s go.
Before my 19th birthday even occurred, we made the mistake of planning to have it at Cairo Nights, the dirtiest hookah bar in San Francisco. Owned by the sleaziest 30-year-old Egyptian man I know (sadly, I know a lot of them), this hole in a wall has as many health code violations as an Indian sewage brothel. But, as long as you were old enough to have boobs, Khaled didn’t care how old you were and was more than happy to let anyone in. This was the appeal to Cairo- it was a place where kids could get drunk and do drugs under a dry roof without getting arrested. As you can imagine, it was especially popular during the rainy season.
Cairo Nights has a big reputation in the Bay Area, but is mainly known for hookah coals falling on people and leaving burn marks as well as16-year-olds losing their virginity in the bathroom. As you may suspect, this gem of a hellhole is my idea of a good time.
Luckily, my high school friends are just as pathetic as I am and also love Cairo. I feel fortunate for this. If I had friends who had standards and minded the risk of getting diseases from sitting in the chairs in this place, we’d have problems.
Of course when entering Cairo, Khaled greeted me with a hug and kiss as I proceeded to take pulls of Skyy directly from the handle and dance to Ke$ha’s all too brilliant song “Blow”. Best day ever.
“Lilaaaa! Welcome to Cairo, baby! Happy birthday! How old are you now, 15, 16? Looking sexier and sexier every day, baby!” Khaled yelled at me with his thick Arabic accent.
“That’s creepy, Khaled. I’m 19. Do you have a shot glass I can borrow?”
“Of course, baby. Keep that bottle away from the window though, yes? We don’t want the police to come and shut me down now, do we?”
“Questionable. On the one hand, it would save a lot of lives and keep you and your Arab friends from making out with 13-year-olds. On the other hand, my main source of entertainment would be gone. So no, I wouldn’t want that happening.”
“Lila baby, I can’t hear you. Can you repeat that?” Khaled yelled through the loud music.
I proceeded to drink heavily as the night continued, and couldn’t have been having a better time. Jake had finally agreed to leave his house for once and actually came to San Francisco for this, which was as rare of an occasion as Chelsea Handler getting through a sentence without using the word Caslopus in reference to her own vagina. Again, best day ever. He and about 10 of my friends from my old high school had shown up for this, and were all having a great time drinking, dancing, and gagging from watching Khaled grab the asses of 8th graders.
Some of us stepped outside to get some air when I was approached by a guy who seemed to be a straight-off-the-boat Russian, which I am always skeptical of (read my story, Russians and Other Funny People). “Hey cutie,” he said with a suspiciously non-existent Russian accent, “I’m looking to get at you tonight.”
“…the fuck?” I said to him, standing there trying to figure out if this kid had Asbergers and/or if I had hooked up with him before. Without either of those two explanations to justify his comment, he needed to get out of my life immediately. “Do I know you? And where is your accent?”
“Don’t think so,” he said as he got closer to me, “but I’m down for some Snooki tonight. And what do you mean, accent? Why would you think I’d have an accent?”
“First answer: not happening. Second answer: you look like a Russian terrorist, if those exist.”
“…uh, okay. Whatever you want me to be, babe.”
I went back inside and quickly forgot this interaction as I continued drinking heavily and started getting grab-assy with the stranger sitting at the table next to me. A few hours later when I was drunk enough to say “Khaled, you’re looking gooood tonight!,” (never a good sign) Lacy and John showed up, my two favorite and only friends from the cow town of Novato. “HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY, BITCH!” Lacy screamed at me in the Cairo doorway as she ran in and gave me a hug. “YOU LOOK LIKE A SLUT!”
“Thank you!” I replied. “I’M SO GLAD YOU GUYS ARE HERE!” They sat down at our table as I started chatting up this guy who looked suspiciously familiar, but was too intoxicated to question myself. I’ve found it to be true that trusting my instincts when blacked out is always a guarantee for making new friends and/or a complete disaster. This often leads to personal amusement and always embarrassment on someone’s part. At the rate I’m going with my alcoholic tendencies, this is a risk I’m willing to take.
Before I knew it, I had somehow made it onto his lap and we were talking about school and our futures. “You’re cute!” I informed him. In alcohol-influenced Cairo-attending people lingo, that means “let’s get it on.” And so we did, for the whole Cairo community to see. Not that we were unique in our sloppy drunken make out session- this is the standard expectation for a Cairo attendee. Still, my friends could not have been more entertained by this tragedy of a scene.
“HAHAHAHHA LILA!!!!” Hadas yelled at me across the room as she and Hadas WV laughed hysterically. “THAT’S THE GUY WHO CALLED YOU SNOOKI EARLIER!!”
“HAHAHAH! YEAH! YOU’RE SUCH A SLUT!” Lacy chimed in.
Of course, this didn’t phase me. Yes, it did turn out to be the same suspiciously Russian looking man from earlier to bluntly informed me that he had planned to “get with me” later that night, but of course, it was too late now. There was no turning back. I am many things, my friends, but I am not a quitter.
We continued to make out until the majority of Cairo attendees had gotten in their grinding and coke-doing for the night and decided to head home. My friends and the Russian’s friends were the only ones left and were bonding over us embarrassing ourselves. I didn’t care. I was wearing my favorite black dress, it was my birthday, and I was on top of a stranger whose ethnicity I was pondering in my head the entire time. I couldn’t have felt more fulfilled.
I spontaneously got up off his lap and left him when deciding to stop neglecting my friends who had agreed to come to this health hazard of a business for me. “HEY GUYS!” I greeted them as I returned to our table.
“HAHAH LILA, I LOVE YOU. I can’t believe you just made out with that foreign-looking person in front of all of Cairo,” Lacy commented.
“Whatever,” I slurred back. “Over it.”
Shortly after, my new Russian friend came over to our table and started talking to Hadas, Amy, Lacy and some others, while I was allegedly drunk texting my seventh grade boyfriend telling him I think it’d be great if we got back together.
“So guys,” New Russian Friend said to them, “What do you all think of getting a hotel room? I’m really interested in your friend. Let’s turn this into a hotel party!”
A moment of silence followed this comment when Hadas WV laughed in his face. “HAAHAHH!!! What the fuck!!? Are you serious? Why would we want to get a hotel with you?”
“Hadas, You’re so rude! Don’t laugh in his face!” Lacy said to her. “Actually, though,” she turned to him, “what the fuck? Who are you? You’re SO sketch!!!”
“Uhhh, okay, never mind then,” he said. “Lila (apparently he’d discovered my name over the past three hours), would you want to come home with me tonight?”
“No thank you.”
“Um, okay…can I at least get your number?”
“Better question. Are you a Russian?”
Armenian New Friend left and we said goodbye to our friends who were still suffering through this night. Amy, Hadas, Lacy, John and I left and got in Lacy’s car, deciding to go for a relaxing evening drive through the Tenderloin on a Saturday night. In case you’re not from the Bay Area, the Tenderloin is the red light/homeless/drug dealing district of San Francisco. This may be a surprise to you all, but this is where Cairo Nights is located.
We collectively decided to go on a prostitute hunt, because that is who my friends are. Of course, we immediately spotted one in a red dress on the corner of an ally way, and watched as she climbed into the front seat of a janky gangster car that looked straight out of a Snoop video. We all immediately got excited, because we were seeing a scene straight out of a B.E.T movie, but in real life. “LET’S CHASE DAT BITCH!” John said in the most black girl ghetto accent he could acquire.
Lacy immediately stepped on it and started following the car down the street. This was when Lacy and John decided this was the perfect opportunity for some improv and wanted to create a dialogue between the hooker and the pimp, Lacy being the pimp and John being the whore, of course.
“YO BITCH, SUCK MY DICK. I’M LOOKIN FOR SOME ROADDDD DOME, BITCH.” Lacy began in the best pimp voice she could come up with. Surprisingly, it was quite accurate.
“You know I do it, baby! I do it goooooood!” John replied in his high-pitched black prostitute voice, which was also impressive. When he said this, the prostitute in the car ahead of us turned around and looked at our car. “OH SHIT, YOU THINK THOSE JEWISH WHITE KIDS FOLLOWING US ARE UNDER COVER COPS???”
“BITCH, I don’t give a SHIT. SUCK. MA. DICK.”
“OKAY, BABY, OKAY.”
This went on for approximately 15 minutes until the pimp car in front of us was actually suspicious and quickly cut through an alley way to get rid of us. At this point I was nearly peeing in my pants of laughter, but quickly moved on when someone suggested we go to a strip club. It’s a possibility that it was me who brought up the strip club idea, but based on everyone’s agreed excitement, this part of the story is irrelevant.
Apparently strip clubs close earlier than we thought, and were all closing when we showed up. When the bouncer wouldn’t let us in, I felt the need to explain to him, “BUT IT’S MY BIRTHDAY. I’M A BLAST IN A GLASS. LET ME INTO THIS PLACE.”
“Happy birthday, but we’re closing down for the night. All the dancers are going home. Come back tomorrow.”
“I understand,” I said calmly. “Strippers need to sleep too, I bet.”
“LOOK GUYS!” Hadas yelled as she stepped out of the doorway of the strip club. “ONE OF THE STRIPPERS GAVE ME A SANTA HAT!!!!!! I’M SO HAPPY!!!” she yelled as she started to whimper with joy.
“Please, Hadas, no crying tonight.”
Lacy then drove us back to my car, where Hadas agreed to drive as the soberest one there. We parted ways with Lacy and John and started heading to Amy’s when I came up with my 2nd best suggestion of the night: “LET’S GO TO CJHS!!!!”
Our old high school, Community Jewish High School, is also in a winning neighborhood of San Francisco. It’s right in the middle of the Western Addition, an area full of gangs and crack addicts. Oh yeah, and about 100 white awkward Jewish kids.
Naturally, we all agreed it was a great idea to stop there and get out of the car at 3 in the morning, because it wasn’t like we could get shot or anything. We had a ten-minute photo shoot outside the building, and then collectively decided that we’d rather not get gang raped, and Amy’s house had cookies. We decided to go there.
We fell asleep immediately, and for some reason, I sort of forgot about that night. Embarrassing as it was, it was an all too typical weekend in my belligerent life. But thank you, Hadas WV, for constantly reminding me of these times that deserve to be remembered, and Baruch Hashem, I hope there will be more to come soon.