Just Say No

I have a confession to make: I don’t like beer pong. I know, this is blasphemy to many of you, but it’s time I came clean. I don’t have a good reason for not liking it. I never took a flying pong ball to the eye and had to wear a patch or anything epic like that. It just kind of sucks. It’s like that awful board game, Cranium, that someone always insists on bringing to game night. Everyone loves that damn game (except for you, Melia, and I love you for it), and I just don’t understand. I am a connoisseur of both board games and drinking games, and neither beer pong nor Cranium will be played at any house party of mine.

For some reason, this trip has been beer-pong-tastic (which is odd considering I haven’t played since circa 2002), and it’s gotten me thinking about all the other well-loved American social pastimes that I loathe. This isn’t an all-inclusive list, as my hatred reaches far and wide. These are just the first few that come to mind.

1. Bowling. Please, everyone look at my ass while I awkwardly chuck a ball down a narrow alley and alarm the old folks in the next lane by continuously dropping the f-bomb. Honestly, I only go for the beer and pizza.

2. Darts. Trust me; it’s better that I don’t hurl sharp objects in crowded places.

3. Piñatas. The crappy Dum Dums and Smarties left over from last Halloween are never worth wearing a blindfold and spastically flailing a stick around.

4. Dodge ball. So many bad childhood memories all rolled into one humiliating game. And I wasn’t even the fat kid.

5. Wiffle ball. The last time I played, I was on vacation with Brian’s entire family. I was happy to sit on the beach and read David Sedaris, but noooo, I had to play frickin’ wiffle ball. I struck out enough times that everyone from Brian’s 70-year-old dad to his 10-year-old nephew made fun of me. I like my family because we don’t mandate wholesome fun through sports.

Brian insists I only hate these games because I’m not very good at them. Whatever. I’m taking my ball and going home.

In the Navy

For the next three weeks, I will be living on a Navy base in Rhode Island. Oh yes; you heard correctly. They’re letting the dirty liberal in dirtier flip-flops stay on the coast where they “dress” for dinner and know how to eat lobster. Did I mention I’ll be living in a military establishment? Brian is at the Surface Warfare Officer’s School (which sounds terrifying and full of grizzled old men yelling, “Fire the nukes!”) for a few weeks, and I decided to tag along for a change of scenery. I can work from my little laptop by day, then tear it up New England style at night.

I’m stoked about my quasi-vacation, but honestly, I don’t know if I can behave myself for such an extended period of time. I couldn’t even swing it for an evening. Brian took me to a Navy ball in college, right before we started dating, and I tried my darndest to be a lady. I squeezed into my senior prom dress and let my roommates curl my hair and paint me up like a DG pledge. I only ground my teeth a little when some higher-up gave a speech about “fighting the war on terror” and “preserving the freedoms we hold so dear.” I was so proud of myself. And then this old man got up and started talking about our brave seamen abroad, and it was all over.

“Let us remember the seamen who are working hard to keep us safe. These seamen make personal sacrifices to patrol our waters. Let’s take a moment to pray for the seamen…”

I had to keep coughing and covering my mouth with my hand to disguise the fact that I was giggling like a little girl. No one else (besides Brian) seemed amused. Come on, people! An old, old man keeps saying “semen” over and over. Nothing? Not even a little bit? These were obviously not my people.

So I’m a little apprehensive about spending three whole weeks trying to hold my tongue and not shame my boyfriend. I’ve already established that, yes, he will be a little embarrassed if I randomly salute people on base. But what if I just call everyone “Cap’n” or ask strangers in uniform for an a capella rendition of “In the Navy”? Sometimes the spirit just moves me. I’ll do my best to be good, but I’m not making any promises…

Hipster Olympics

Many of you know of my profound distaste for hipsters. I lived among them for a year in the Mission (apparently San Francisco’s version of Williamsburg), dodging them as they wheeled their bicycles languidly through crowded sidewalks, trying not to listen to their purposely loud accounts of how hard they partied the night before. Oh my GOD, I feel like shit today. I must have had, like, ten beers last night. Are my eyes still dilated? I can’t even take my sunglasses off inside; it hurts too much.

Hipsters perplex me. I just have so many questions. How do all the tools know to congregate in one particular area? Is there a hipster version of a bat signal? How can a person possibly wear that many accessories at once? How long does it really take them to achieve that “I just rolled out of bed and haven’t bathed in days” look? Does it hurt to be too cool for school? If I started to cut my own hair and wear skinny jeans and smoke a pack a day, would I become one of them, or would they sniff me out as an impostor?

One of my SF co-workers sent me this video today, and while I laughed heartily at the expense of my stylish, trust-funded peers, I also realized something disturbing. I kind of miss the hipsters. San Diego has surf bums and aging hippies and blonde Valley Girls with fake tans and faker boobs, but no hipsters spouting their pseudo-intellectual analysis of the latest indie band you’ve never heard of. Where am I supposed to direct all my snarky commentary if there’s no malnourished, velvet-blazer-wearing, PBR-drinking “artist” at my neighborhood coffee shop? The SoCal sorostitutes are far too easy (in every sense of the word). Must. Mock. Something. Help!

Games? I Like Games

The sweet, sassy vixen Lisa tagged me, and I’m not one to back down from a fight. A game…I mean, a game.

Accent – I’m from California. I don’t think I really have an accent. I do talk too fast and say “hella” and “sweet” and “hella sweet” too much. I did pick up some New Orleansisms when I was down there, and every now and then, people tell me I sound like a Southern belle and/or bootlegger.

I Don’t Drink – Jägermeister. Holy crap, that stuff is awful. The last time I had it was at a classy establishment called Tropical Isle on Bourbon Street (we were meeting friends from out of town around– Bourbon Street isn’t a normal hangout). For some reason, I kept insisting that I could scam drinks from strangers, and some friendly gentleman tourists obliged to prove my point. That night ended badly.

Chore I Hate – I don’t mind doing dishes or cleaning bathrooms, but I hate tidying and decluttering my apartment. I never have places to put things, and it drives me nuts.

Pets – I have a blind, 12-year-old goldfish named either Santa or Nova (I wasn’t sure which one died– they look the same!) that resides with my parents. Brian and I are working on keeping our little herb garden alive, and then we can talk pets.

Essential Electronic – My sweet, sweet Macbook. I don’t know how I ever lived without being in constant email and IM contact with my co-workers, friends and distant acquaintances.

Perfume/Cologne – I recently bought my first big kid perfume (in other words, one that costs more than ten bucks and doesn’t smell like cucumber-melon). It’s Lancome’s “Miracle,” which I insist on pronouncing in an exaggerated, pretentious French accent.

Gold or silver – Well, I’d go with white gold if I had the cash, but I’ll settle for silver. Gold just makes me feel like Mr. T.

Insomnia – I never have a problem sleeping unless I’m really upset about something or it’s obscenely hot in my room. The latter has been true the last week, so I’ve been a wee bit grumpy.

Job Title – Content Writer/Editor/Bitch-Slapper Extraordinaire.

Most Admired Trait – I make an excellent trophy wife. I didn’t get my MRS degree for nothing. I also have a mean football tackle.

Kids – Not for a very long time. No buns coming out of this oven. When I’m in my thirties, I think I’ll want a couple of them; no more, no less. With a few exceptions, only children are freaks, and more than two is just not happening. Brian wants three; I told him he can carry the last one for nine months and give up his figure, career and mental stability. Sometimes it’s like Katie Ide is speaking through me.

Religion – Catholic-ish. I grew up in the “love, forgiveness and tolerance” brand of Catholicism, which I’m realizing as I get older is rarely found outside Northern California. I’m not a huge fan of doctrines that hate on women, gays and those who live in sin with their significant others.

Siblings – One fabulous older sister, Melia. I’m not sure who’s the yin and who’s the yang, but together, we will simultaneously kick your ass at Taboo and make you the best peppermintini you’ve ever had.

Time I wake up – I used to hit my snooze button until almost 8 a.m. and have to run to get to work on time. Now that I work from home, I can get up at 7:30, exercise and still be at work by 9.

Unusual talent/skill – I can remember every piece of useless pop culture trivia that comes my way. What? You want to know what Tori Spelling’s character’s name was on “Saved by the Bell”? Why, Violet Bickerstaff, of course! What else would you like to know?

Vegetable I refuse to eat – Brussel sprouts. WTF is that smell?

Worst habit –Procrastination.

X-rays – Are pretty frickin’ sweet. I worked at a dental office in high school, and I got darn good at arranging them in order to create a creepy skeletal smile.

My favorite meal – I crave lots of New Orleans foods that I can’t get here–shrimp po-boys, crawfish étouffée, beignets. Or dim sum. Lots and lots of those little steamed pork buns.

Tag time, eh? Um, most of the bloggy friends I have (not many) are already playing this game. OK, Sara. And Melia when she finally starts her blog. GO!