Another Instance of Me Making an Ass of Myself

It was a Saturday. Excitement was in the air of the movie theater. Not because we were working and it was busy, but because that night, those of us 18 years old and older were going to tour the Cambridge bar scene and to see our manager's band play at one of the bars.

The car was due to leave the theater at 8:00. I arrived promptly at 7:55 (because I offered to drive us in the convertible, may it rest in peace) with my hurr did (in a fauxhawk! Stylin'!), and my clothes were bangin' (graphic tee and jeans that give me some semblance of an ass). Maria, Angela and Katie meandered over to the golden car (I'm crying as I write this) and we were off.

But we weren't on the highway long, when cries of, "I'm hunnnnngry!" emanated from the backseat. I turned off the Mass Pike to go to a rest stop with TWO drive-throughs! We stopped first at McDonald's. As the driver, I was in charge of ordering. Katie very politely told me her order, Angela politely declined, and Maria climbed over my seat, shoved her head through the window and screamed, "DO YOU HAVE ANY HASHBROWNS?!"

Once the drive-through worker's ears stopped bleeding, he said, "No, we only have those at breakfast." At this point, it was 8:30. At night.

"What do you MEAN, 'You don't have any hashbrowns?!'" Maria continued berating the drive-through employee.

I butted in,"...and a large order of french fries."

We picked up our food and the occupants of the Fagmobile (Waaah!) clamored for coffee. So, we went to the Dunkin' Donuts drive-through next door.

"Do you think the McDonald's is gonna call Dunkin's and warn them that there's a car full of assholes coming their way?" Katie asked. I had to laugh at her summation of the behavior of my friends. Young adults? More like old kids.

We eventually stopped harassing minimum-wage earning fast food workers. After I went the wrong way down a one-way path, we were back on the highway on the way to Boston. Maria was playing DJ and we decided on "Disturbia" by Rihanna as our song of choice. Car rides with me are often very musical and involve white girls (which is a term that includes myself) dancing.

This song always reminds me of driving to Boston, anyway:
1. Because the chorus has a line about driving through a city.
And 2. One night, on the way home from meeting some friends in Boston, I had the top of the Mustang down as I pulled up to a stoplight. "Disturbia" was the song playing at a loud volume when a taxi pulled up next to me. This taxi was filled with old, drunk, gay guys. The one in the backseat on the passenger's side rolled down his window and screamed, "Haaaay! My friend wantsth to talk to youuuu!" The old queen's friend hung his head in shame. Sadly, this isn't the first time I've received attention from men who are old enough to be my father.

Anyway, we parked the car and entered the bar. Two large "x"'s were drawn on my hand and the mingling began. We saw old friends and had the time of our lives, while the other three people in this bar (on a Saturday night, remember) listened to the lonely girl on stage perform an acoustic cover of "Cry Me a River" by Justin Timberlake. It was almost sad, as if she were actually asking us to cry her a river for her lack of talent. I can almost guarantee you she cried a river when she got home, due to the sparse amount of applause she received.

Our friends Sarah and Sarah stepped in next, already in a state of advanced inebriation. I pulled out a 5 dollar bill to buy a drink, which was fascinating to Sarah D., due to the size of the purple "5."

"It's just like... FIVE!" she remarked.

I turned away from her drunk spectacle and watched Liam's band's set. They played a great show with lots of energy and we congratulated him after. Everyone settled in for the next act: A Screamo band from New Hampshire. ...Okay.

I watched their set with a new focus. Liam caught me staring. "Are you checking out the drummer?" he asked, pointing out the unattractive drummer with long, greasy hair and no shirt on.

"No," I said, "the guy who keeps posing with the guitar." My friends, disgusted with my unusual timidity with guys, eventually threatened to go talk to him for me. Luckily, they didn't have to get up! He came by our table to buy an EP from Liam.

Before I continue, let me explain something. Sarah L. is one of my best friends. So I mean it with love when I say that she has very little tact when she's sober, let alone when she's hammered.

"Hey! SIT DOWN!" she commanded, motioning for him to sit down between us. She chatted him up and tried to get me to join in the conversation. But I was hesitant, because I couldn't tell which team the tall, dark and handsome bassist played for.

I later found out, after googling his band (and telling the band's facebook that the bassist is totally cute), that he was engaged to the lead singer. Who is a girl. Needless to say, I hung my head in shame.

Our group ran into the bassist a year later at a different bar for a different show. I could tell that he recognized me, due to the fact that he kept shooting me creeped out looks all night. In my defense, his band got up on stage and performed a hardcore cover of "Paparazzi" by Lady GaGa, which is about as gay as it gets.

Liam's band was headlining that night. While I was still feeling kind of awkward in the crowd, no one was more awkward than the two gay guy-one Asian lady sandwich on the dancefloor at the end of the set. So I felt a little better.

Diary of a High-Maintenance Man Bitch

Picking up my little brother home from my old middle school, I heard an alarm go off.

"Is that the fire alarm?" I asked.

Nonplussed, he responded, "I don't know."

It made me think back to my middle school experience. And how much I hated it. And everyone there. I would get relentlessly followed around by a girl with a green tooth, and everyone wanted to know if we were going out. Funny how that turned out...

I also knew a kid who was convinced that the public school system was a conspiracy designed by the government to feed us radioactive cafeteria food for an impending nuclear war.

I shit you not.

But back to the fire alarm... There was one time when someone pulled the fire alarm on a cold, rainy day. Everyone was excited to be out of class for 45 minutes while the school's administration investigated the matter. As for me?

"Are we doing this right now?"

"Corey, why are you covering your ears?"

"'Cause that alarm is so god damn loud! Also, I'm FREEZING. This sucks."

Old, whiny habits die hard.

Technology and My Family (Part 4)

Ever since I got my Blackberry, I've had the internet, texting and e-mail at my fingertips. Sometimes this isn't such a great thing. Case in point:

From: Mom
Date: Thu, 18 Feb 2010 13:38:34 -0500
To: Corey
Subject: Re: What uppp!

Hello My Darling,

I have had a rather long week and I believe that I will need to commemorate Thirsty Thursday...because I missed Ash Wednesday yesterday. I do not want to miss two holy days in a row !!!!

Thank you,
Lois Saunders

Sign of the Times.

Every semester, I impatiently wait for a check from school. The banks always give us poor people more money in loans than we need, in case tuition goes up or some other financial issue arises. But that never happens, so the school always cuts me a check for a few hundred dollars and sends me on my way.

The other day, I came home and sorted through the mailbox. There it was: A letter from Framingham State College. Surely, this was a big, fat, $400 check! My credit card company would be thrilled!

I opened up the letter.

"Dear Edward,

You made the President's List for getting good grades. Blah blah blah.

President Guy"

I tossed the letter aside. My dad asked, "Corey, what does that letter say?"

"Pssht, I made President's List."

"Coah, that's great!"

"But it's not MONEY."

Girls (and Homos) Just Wanna Have Fun

Have you ever tried to survive in a long-distance relationship? Don't bother. I tried, in my wild youth (okay, last summer). It was terrible. I found that regular contact is key. Not just the phone, but in person contact, too.

After a late-night phone call, in which I was told not to wait for my pseudo-boyfriend (read: DUMPED), I was in bad shape. That's when I was asked to make an appearance at a gay bar by one of my... "contacts," I guess you could call him. I accepted the offer, citing a necessity to "blow off some steam."

"You should totally come," he said. "I'm bringing my friends from boy scout camp for karaoke night."

"...You're bringing boy scouts to a gay bar?"

"Yep! So?"

"...Are they gay?"

"Nope!"

"And do they know it's a gay bar?"

"We're not telling two of them, just to see their reactions."

Not only is this boy a malicious prankster, he's gay, a boy scout, and the son of a Baptist pastor. Absorb the irony. I still haven't.

The night of this hot mess arrived and I made my way to the club, dressed in my gayest. I was ready to party (read: attempt to dance, make a fool of myself, and get judged by skinny queens who ask each other, "Why is Rosie O'Donnell dancing with us?").

I met him on the stairs on the way into the bar, where the bouncer (a.k.a. Skinny Queen #42) was checking IDs. He gave me a huge hug and took a swig from his Vitamin Water, which was very obviously mixed with some sort of liquor.

We made small talk up the winding staircase until we reached the 3rd floor, where the Karaoke festivities were taking place. "Everyone," the boy, who shall remain nameless, started, "this is Corey."

"COR-AAAYYYY!" the obviously intoxicated boy scouts cheered. They all introduced themselves and acted very cordial. We chatted for a bit, until the boy and I moved out to the staircase for a more private chat. I was thankful. All the boy scouts discussed were girls, sports, and pocket knives. I had NOTHING to contribute.

It was then that the boy turned his back and walked away from me without a word. "Hey, don't leave me here!" I snapped. He beckoned me toward him with his finger. Due to the fact that I'm an airhead who thinks I'm smarter than I really am, I couldn't figure out why we'd be leaving the karaoke party and instead going down to the level of the bar with no one else around.

Before I could process what was going on, I noticed that I had been thrown up against a wall with a tongue in my mouth that wasn't mine. "...Ohhh," is what went through my head. Not a minute into the hardcore make out sesh, Skinny Queen #3081 and Skinny Queen #5 came running up the stairs behind us and bumped into us, killing the moment.

The boy smiled at me. "Corey, you were supposed to warn me if that was gonna happen!"

Indignantly, I responded, "I don't know about you, but I don't make out WITH MY EYES OPEN!" That statement has since made me ponder the implications of open-eye kissing. I envision it, and it's SO creepy! Think about it.

We actually discussed this matter at lunch one day at the law office.

"Corey," Sue said, "that's not really that weird."

"Yes, it is!" I shot back. "When your eyes are open while kissing, you can't HELP but look like a molester."

Nancy and Sue stared at me for a minute and subsequently went back to eating their salads. I guess I don't choose my battles very well.

Anyway, the boy got off of me and went to check out the men's room. The lower brain eventually beat out the upper one and he led me into the stall. I was wildly attracted to him, but wasn't sure if giving up my intended career in the law for one night of lewd acts in public was worth it. Then I figured that this was a gay bar, and far worse things than kissing and fondling have transpired in this very bathroom.

Things progressed, and toward the end, the music emanating from the club slowly started to register with me. I felt the techno beats pounding through the walls and the lyrics became clear as we exited the bathroom.

"Whoa, no, I do not hook up, up," Kelly Clarkson's voice belted.

I stopped in my tracks and asked, "Do you HEAR that?!"

"What?" the boy asked.

"They're playing 'I Do Not Hook Up,'" I said, emphasizing the irony with my voice.

"...No way," he laughed.

"Yeah, listen."

Kelly went on to rub it in my face that she "goes slow" and that if I want her, she "doesn't come cheap." It seemed as if Karma was, once again, rubbing the absurdity that is my life in my face. But the stickiness of the situation doesn't end there. We returned to the bar room, where the boy scouts were proud to show me the picture they had taken of my feet and the boy's feet under the stall door. Days later, I was tagged in said picture and it circulated around Facebook.

I wasn't so much worried about that, however, as I was worried about what a mess my life really is sometimes. Case in point: We left the club and he kissed me goodbye. We were about to part ways, when an old, beat up Lincoln with the front-end bouncing pulled up outside the bar. Loud, hip-hop music blared from the speakers as the windows rolled down. Through the open window, I saw a young woman, who I affectionately nicknamed "Shanaynay." She was accompanied by her friends, Shaniqua, Latisha and Keesha.

"Hayyyy, boys! How you doin'?" Shanaynay asked us, as if she were Wendy Williams in the flesh.

"We good, how you girls doin'?" the boy asked Shanaynay and her band of Dream Girls.

"We good! Y'all keep partyin'!" the bad stereotypes cheered as they drunkenly drove away. I debated checking the newspapers the next day for a headline along the lines of: "Four Dead in Drunk Driving Accident. Friends Say They 'Partied All Night Long,'" but I decided to leave that one alone.

The text message that went out to my girl friends after that read: "Just hooked up in a gay bar, while 'I Do Not Hook Up' played in the background. New low?"

The responses?

"Yeah! Get some!"

"Did he have a fat deck?"

"Good for u lovie!"

It was at this point that I decided to re-evaluate my morals, in the style of Bridget Jones's Diary:

"I will:
Make good choices.

"I will not:
Do anything stupid.
Do anything illegal.
Get used."

It works in theory. Practice is a whole other story.

Annual "Corey is a Bigger Bitch Than Usual" Day

As Valentine's Day fast approaches, I have to wonder how this Hallmark holiday came to be. It could be just that: A Hallmark holiday in order to sell cards after Christmas and before Easter. But part of me believes its origins to be more sinister. Our society today ultimately aims to become situated in a high-paying job and then get married before becoming old and crusty.

But who the hell had the authority (and balls) to assign February 14th as such a hateful holiday for single people? Technically, this holiday celebrates Saint Valentine, which leads me to believe that the religious right is out to get me (more so than usual). I can get legally married in this state, you mother fuckers!

Dating sucks, anyway. Sure, I love the butterflies I get when I meet someone and I really like them. But the whole process is so asinine. Especially for people my age. Some call the teenage years the awkward ones. I'm twenty years old, and this age is even more awkward. This is that age where us early twenty-somethings are ALMOST adults, but we're still working part-time jobs and making zero money, finishing our education and growing into the people we're meant to be. Or, like many of my high school classmates, living at home, pregnant and smoking weed. Can't wait for the reunion!

I went out on a first date a while ago. He asked me out for coffee in Boston. I thought about the offer and could only think of a stand-up bit Chelsea Handler once performed:
"Who decided coffee was a date? We can't get a meal anymore, ladies! What is a FRAPPUCCINO gonna lead to? A piggyback ride?"

Sadly, that about summed up the date. I accepted the offer and we went to Starbucks, where he spent a whole three dollars on my venti caramel apple spice with no whipped cream. The conversation was okay, but he just didn't make me laugh or think. That switch just didn't go off.

He then suggested we walk around the city, somehow dragging me to RAPE ALLEY; a.k.a. a scary side street where I thought I saw a drug deal occurring. Finally, we ended up in Government Center, when he saw the 24 hour Kinko's and decided he needed to send a fax. He sensed my horror that he even suggested this and tried to recover. "Uh, I don't have to send that fax NOW..."

I answered, holding back my exasperation as much as possible (which, if you know me, you know I have trouble doing), "No, no... I'm all for efficiency. I mean, we're here anyway..."

He opened the door for me and held it. So romantic.

Upon entering, the huge black lady with the word "SUPERVISOR" on her name tag behind the counter snapped at her employee, "YO! TYRONE! FEED THE PRINTAH! IT'S HUNNNNGRY!"

I stared, unable to believe this was actually happening to me. The supervisor turned back to us and asked frustratedly, "Can ah heeeeelp you?

"I just need to fax this," my date said, handing over the document and fax number. He then went to the bathroom and left me alone with the Kinko's staff. I was afraid they might shoot me or eat me, but they kept to themselves.

The supervisor wrapped a scarf around her head and addressed Tyrone. "Tyrone! Look! This is what them Muslim peoples wear! You know, them Jihad peoples?"

We eventually left Kinko's, when my date said, "I better go... Are you around next week? We could get dinner."

Luckily, I had plans to be away the next weekend. I never got a call after that.

People tell me I should be single and happy, rather than taken and miserable. To them, I say: "Suck it." I'm gonna have my cake and eat it, too (Please, no fat jokes).