Bright College Years

Two weeks ago, I celebrated the 10th anniversary of graduating from college by attending my reunion in good ol' still-crime-stricken New Haven. It was, in a word, surreal.

Compared to the 5th year reunion, this weekend was way more chill. There were some similarities -- mediocre food, weird/amazing dance parties (see above photo), pretty low-shelf booze considering how much we all spent on tuition (not to mention spent to attend the damn reunion -- $225!). You see some friends you've stayed in touch with, a few that you haven't and are genuinely delighted to reconnect with even though because of Facebook you know about their new job/spouse/baby/book/sexual orientation. And then there are tons of randos -- folks you literally haven't thought about for ten years and those you never met at college. In other words, complete fucking strangers. But that's okay, that's what the open bar is for.

But after only five years out, reunion felt more cutthroat; many of my peers were in law school or med school, or in the throes of applying to one or the other. We all looked relatively the same. Few had married and there was maybe one baby. We were all basically the same amount of mature at 27 that we were at 22. And instead of just being pleasantly filled with nostalgia, I remember actively longing to still be in college instead of working and paying bills and dealing with shitty Craigslist roommates.

Not so this time around -- now we're in our thirties. Lots of my classmates have "settled down," so to speak. A few are even on their second marriages. Instead of bragging about careers, we have funny stories of failure to share that we all can relate to. Because despite our expensive degrees, we fucked up as much as any other 20-somethings and now we can admit it and have a good laugh.

I appreciated the more mellow vibe. And instead of apologizing/justifying my career choice, like I felt I had to do at the last reunion (one person literally said, "wow, that's so brave!" when I said I was getting my MFA in poetry), I fully owned up to the fact that I am a poet. And instead of snickering, people seemed supportive and curious. Despite not having a ring on my finger or a pregnant belly (babies were THE must-have accessory of this reunion), I felt okay about my life.    

Of course, no Yale reunion would be complete without a ton of a cappella singing. Whiffenpoofs ranging from age 27 to 90 performed, and my senior women's group sang a few songs as well, despite the alumni association's utter inability to provide us with any concert logistics. 

And speaking of singing, I'm proud to say that I was able to refrain from drunkenly wailing Adele's "Someone Like You" to my college sweetheart, who was there with his wife. 

 College boyfriend on the left; the guy on the right is my current roommate. Picture taken Sept. '99. I still have those pajama pants.

I also finally learned the words to our school song, "Bright College Years," and have to admit, they resonate a lot more now.

Bright college years with pleasure rife
The shortest, gladdest years of life
How swiftly are ye gliding by
Oh, why doth time so quickly fly?
The seasons come, the seasons go
The earth is green or white with snow
But time and change cannot avail
To break the friendships formed at Yale.

In after years when troubles rise
To cloud the blue of sunny skies
How bright will seem through memory's haze
Those happy, golden bygone days.
Oh let us strive that ever we  
May let these words our watch-cry be,
Where'er upon life's sea we sail:
For God, for country, and for Yale!

When you are a Yale student and everything is coming up roses/the future seems blindingly bright/you feel invincible, it's hard to believe troubles will ever cloud your skies. But it's true that when that happens, there are friends from your bright college years that will stand by you and remind you that things could always be worse. For instance, you could have gone to Harvard.

At Yale, we sometimes drink alcohol out of giant trophy cups.

Camping

I have just returned from a one-day camping trip to Unity, ME. I haven't done a lot of camping in my day -- prior to this, my last camping trip back in 2007 to the Berkshires only differed from normal life in that my friends and I drank beers in a tent as opposed to someone's living room. We didn't hike, swim, or fish. We ate a lot of marshmellows and listened to music from a wireless ipod dock. It wasn't really roughing it; we were at a camping site, so there were even public restrooms nearby. It's not really camping if you don't urinate outside, in my opinion. And by that standard, this recent trip definitely qualifies.

I journeyed to the northern reaches of the northern-most state in the union to take part in the annual staff trip at the restaurant where I work, Lineage. Every year we close the restaurant for a day in order to partake in some morale building/staff bonding (and binge drinking). In years past, we've gone to Duxbury, MA to visit Island Creek's oyster farm. This year we went to Sparrow Arc Farm (after a quick stop at the Smuttynose Brewery in Portsmouth, NH) to see where most of our produce comes from. We toured the farm, learned about their methods, and actually got to pick some vegetables (summer squash, cucumbers, carrots) for dinner. 

I ate a raw radish right out of the ground and swore never to go hungry again. Well, the first half of that is true.

 As is tradition, the kitchen staff prepared a truly epic feast. We brought with us, via refrigerated truck, an entire small pig to roast. We also brought about two dozen lobsters.

And two cases of wine (Elk Cove pinot gris and pinot noir) and 24 six-packs of beer. We always budget 1 six-pack and a bottle of wine per person, roughly. And we always manage to consume it all, this time plus a few vodka-infused watermelons. After the farm tour/labor portion of the trip, we spent the next eight hours playing lawn games (our chef has a real knack for the beanbag tossing game, Cornhole), throwing water balloons, getting sunburned, snacking, drinking, and relaxing. It was, even for a non-outdoorsy person such as myself, fantastic. I know I complain sometimes on this blog about the trials and thankless tribulations of waiting tables, but the staff I have gotten to work with for the past 2.5 years couldn't be better. We truly get along famously even outside of work. Only two people were not able to come this year (record attendance) and one person even invented a fictional uncle death in order to get out of her day job to come.

I don't know whose tent I eventually ended up in, but I did manage to get in a few hours of sleep -- it started raining around 11:30 pm and after it stopped, I was too tired to rally. In my defense, we met at the restaurant at 6 am in order to get on the road and be at camp by noon. When I woke up at 2:45 am to pee, many people were still around the campfire arguing about Disney movies and using pie-irons to make hotdog sandwiches. And at 7 am this morning, we cleaned and packed and hit the road again. I fortunately don't have to work tonight, but to my comrades-in-arms working on little to no sleep: finish strong.

"Finish strong" is one of our staff sayings, coined by our chef. Every year on the staff trip, we get some sort of memoriabilia. Last year, we got shirts bearing another great chef quote: "Less force, more finesse," which is his advice to newbie oyster shuckers. This year we got beer koozies that say "What happens in Maine stays in Maine." And in order to honor that sentiment, I will wrap things up by saying that a great time was had by all, and thankfully no one had to use the established safe word (waffles). And since a reporter from the Boston Globe witnessed part of the adventure, certain events will soon be made public. (Luckily he left right before one of the cooks decided to semi-streak across a field wearing nothing but this thong.)

How I spent my first solo Christmas

I am happy to report that my first Christmas sans family was not a miserable lonely affair. It was actually rather low-key and nice. It occurred to me today that, quite by accident, I engaged in a number of my favorite activities.

1. Sleeping late

Some of my friends with more grown-up lives were awakened at the crack of dawn by their Santa-believing youngsters. Not I. I slept in till 11:30am. It was fantastic. There are few things I love more than sleeping. I am a varsity sleeper. This is apparently normal according to my zodiac/astrology chart -- those born on March 1 "need a lot of sleep because they have especially active dream lives." So true and so great to have a sort-of-legit-but-not-really-"scientific"-explanation for my penchant to spend half the day in bed.

2. Cooking

I made myself a fancy breakfast from some leftover stuff in my fridge. I considered attempting my first omelet, but didn't want to risk failure on Christmas, so I opted instead for the frittata route. I wilted some spinach in garlic and oil, added gorgonzola, and folded it into my eggs. YUM.

3. Muppets

After "breakfast" (which was consumed around 12:30), I cuddled up with Maude to watch The Muppet Christmas Carol. I hadn't watched it in years and it was so heartwarming! The scene where Piggy (Mrs. Cratchett) and Kermit (Bob Cratchett) are mourning the loss of Tiny Tim actually made me cry. Also, kudos to Michael Caine for his sincere and committed portrayal of Scrooge -- it's as though he's not even aware his costars are made of felt.



4. Chinese food

Since coming back from China, I haven't eaten much Chinese food. After consuming nothing but for almost a month, I was a little burned out. But I rediscovered my love for the cuisine last night at The Golden Temple in Brookline. I finally experienced the Jewish tradition of Chinese food on Christmas. The place was a madhouse, already packed at 5:30 pm. Fortunately, my friends had reserved ahead; otherwise we would have had to take our chances at some sketchy hole in the wall joint like Lucky Wah. If all you want for Christmas is food poisoning, Lucky Wah is your jam. Or as one Yelper eloquently put it, "Lucky Wah doesn't just make you feel a little iffy. It makes you feel like death incarnate. Like you've been immersed in so much salt that you could be stuffed into a barrel and consumed by New World-bound Puritans."

Fortunately, Golden Temple uses very fresh ingredients and no MSG. The crispy green beans with garlic were phenomenal and will probably haunt my dreams.

5. Going to the movies

I went to see Hugo and while the 3D gave me a slight headache, it was the perfect movie to see on Christmas. Well-made, beautiful to look at, good story, and 3D effects that actually enhanced the film.



6. Drinking craft cocktails in a swanky lounge

I finished off the night at the newly opened bar, The Hawthorne, located in the Hotel Commonwealth. My friend is a bartender there, so I stopped in to say hello and sip their high-class version of eggnog, The Flip Royale, made with ginger liquor, rooibos tea-infused simple syrup, soda water and a raw egg. (You can watch it being made here.) I also had something called The Bishop, which is basically a rum sour topped off with red wine. Yes, weird-sounding, but surprisingly delicious.

So that's how I spent my Christmas. Not too shabby. I did miss my family, but I spoke to them all on the phone and will see some of them soon in the New Year.

To wrap it up, I invite you to bask in the awesome glory of my rather large Christmas tree and my rather large cat.

And so my 30th year of life begins....

Guess what? I turned 29 yesterday!

I had a hangover approximately the size of Montana since the celebrating started the night before, after my first full-length concert with vocal band, Funkin' A! (yes, the exclamation point is part of the name). Or more accurately, the celebrating started during the concert when during an extended instrumental break of one of my solos (Michael Jackson's "Working Day and Night"), I did a shot at the bar. Because I'm just that gangsta. We performed with more established (but less visually stylish) groups Overboard and Similar Jones. Fun times.

Then we went to my former place of work, the Hong Kong, for some karaoke. My brother (visiting from NYC) serenaded the pretty bartender with an amazing version of Taylor Swift's "You Belong With Me." My memory starts to get a little fuzzy around the point where my old boss started buying rounds of shots. Hence, the Monday hangover.

But I pulled it together in time for a lovely birthday dinner at Cuchi Cuchi, where I reserved the Chico Chica Boom Table, New England's first interactive LED (light-emitting diode) table.

It was a great night, with great company. I am a lucky girl. And like a French Bordeaux, I'm only getting better with age. I'm confident that my 30s will be filled with less folly than my 20s, a.k.a. "my salad days/ when I was green in judgment" (Antony and Cleopatra, Act I).

Green in judgment, indeed. That's putting it mildly.

Feb Club

Last night, I participated in the Yale tradition of Feb Club, or now that I've graduated, what's referred to as Feb Club Emeritus, or Feb Club for Old People. At Yale, in acknowledgment of the universally agreed-upon fact that February is the dreariest, worst month, there are parties every night because time passes faster when you're in a persistent drunken haze. Feb Club started sometime in the 70s and in 1989, The New York Times even wrote an article about the phenomenon.

Three years ago, some alums got together and made Feb Club an international initiative and now, there is a Yale-sponsored party every night of February in various cities around the world. What can I say, we Yalies take our alcoholism to a whole 'nother level.

I had some reservations about going to Feb Club -- the tickets cost $20 (which included a drink ticket, appetizers, and free Mory's Cups for the first several hours) and I was pretty sure I wouldn't know anyone there since I haven't attended any Yale Club of Boston events. I bought two tickets, but at the last minute, the person who was to be my guest backed out. So I came very close to not going.....but damn, am I glad I did.

This may sound dumb, but Yale people are my people. I've had mixed results making friends in Boston, but last night, in a room full of strangers, I had more fun and felt more like myself than I have in months. I successfully finished a purple cup, which for the uninitiated, means I drank booze (in this case, a mix of chambord and champagne) from a silver trophy cup and then put the empty cup on my head. I reconnected with a few folks and met a ton of new people. And the venue, the Foundation Room at the House of Blues, was gorgeous and staffed with patient bartenders who learned all the cup recipes.

I had to sign a waiver permitting Feb Club Emeritus to use any photos taken of me last night and I'll probably regret that decision....but will add them to this post when they are available. In lieu of those photos, I'll post some old ones featuring Mory's Cups from my own Bright College Years.

Observations from behind the bar

Recently, my job description at Hong Kong Harvard has expanded from just cocktail waitressing to cocktail waitressing and bartending. On either Friday or Saturday, I get to tend the "baby bar" on the third floor, which serves only beer and shots. It's a totally different perspective, to be behind the bar -- there is more respect and less groping. And I have a great view of the dance floor, which if you've been to my place of work, know is highly entertaining.

Hong Kong reminds me a lot of Toad's in New Haven: it's a cheapish college bar where you can do tequila shots and drink Bud Light while (almost) shamelessly dancing to hip hop and Britney. I myself only went to Toad's three times in four years, and once was to see a They Might Be Giants concert. But the other two times, I did what you're supposed to do in such establishments -- binge-drank like it was going out of style and made a fool of myself on the dance floor. And watching people at Hong Kong has confirmed my worst fears of how ridiculous I must have looked.

My new vantage point offers phenomenal people-watching opportunities. FYI, how you interact with your bartender says more about you than you realize.

Some observations:

Girls tip better than guys

Everyone told me that being a cute girl would be my golden ticket and to wear low-cut shirts to get more tips, but I've found that unless the girlfriend/date is watching, some guys don't tip appropriately. What is appropriate? $1 a drink. Period. Pretty easy. Even with beer, guys. I'm getting paid $2.65/hr, people.

Yes, I am making conversation with you because it's my job. Most likely I do not want your phone number

I mean, I won't be offended if you try to give it to me. I'll probably be flattered. But don't wait by the phone, dude.

Don't be a creeper on the dance floor

Last night, there was this shady dude whose signature move was to sneak up and stealthily freak-dance on unsuspecting girls. When they would finally notice, they would get this horrified look on their faces and run away. I saw this guy do this literally 400 times over the course of two hours. Don't be this guy.

You know how you think you look really fierce? This is what you actually look like:


What you order does say a lot about you

When you ask if I can make you a Sex On The Beach, I am judging you. Especially since there's a big sign over my bar that says I only serve beer.

It's Saturday and I'll be back at Hong Kong again tonight....so drink responsibly! Your bartender is watching you.

Under the influence

Since moving to Boston and starting graduate school has correlated with drinking copious amounts of beer (it's all anybody drinks in this town, seriously), I more than ever wish I could master the art of drunk writing. Not drunk texting or e-mailing; people who know me are well aware of my demonstrated mastery in those fields. In college, I actually had to put Post-Its all over my laptop before going out to remind myself not to send e-mails when I came home drunk. I've matured a little bit since those days.

I'm always envious when I talk to people who say they do some of their best work when drunk and/or high. Coleridge and Poe had their opium; Bukowski, whiskey; Aaron Sorkin, cocaine. A med student once told me that if Sorkin were her patient, she'd feel torn between her responsibility as a doctor to tell him about the myriad medical risks of cocaine abuse and her impulse as a West Wing fan to tell him to stick with the blow.

The truth is, my writing is terrible when I'm not sober. The other night, after some enjoying a few beers with some fellow students at the Tam, I came home tipsy and decided to write a poem. The best thing about this poem is the title: "Wherein I contemplate the possibilty [sic] that I have a drinking problem." The poem itself is completely incoherent, though I did devote an entire stanza to the glories of brunch cocktails. (I have yet to find a solid Bloody Mary in Beantown.)

I often come home from a night of drinking with the best intentions to write and be productive, but I inevitably end up sprawled on my bed watching, for the 1,000,000th time, that episode of Law and Order:SVU where Det. Stabler goes undercover as a pedophile ex-con.

Mmmm, yes.

I have only tried to write stoned once, in college. The poem was about spiders. Correction: "arachnids." I remember thinking that was an amazing word when I was writing the poem.

I keep thinking I might be able to tap into a secret reservoir of creativity if I could just compose sentences while not fully in control of my faculties. I certainly become an amazing dancer when I'm drunk. Check out my hot moves:


Fierce, no?