the itch

It’s taken longer than expected, but it’s predictably arrived, a little over 2 years since I returned to America.  The tardiness of the itch (overdue more than 6 months) is a testament to how happy I’ve been these past two years (along with the serious dearth in blog posts–a busy ho is a happy ho ).  And though I searched and feared for its imminent appearance, the itch always manages to creep up on me until I find myself lying awake at night, consumed with thoughts of starting a new life and leaving everything I know behind.  When the itch comes, I stop sleeping.

So I lie here in bed and try to plan my next move, but it won’t play out like that.  My new life is never a result of careful planning and reasoning.  Instead, the inertia of my old life will herd me into a corner until I am about ready to suffocate, which will lead to the inevitable rash of bad decisions comprising my escape route.

But I am always successful.  The dirt underneath my fingernails is a small price to pay for the fresh air above my grave.

I roll over on my side and watch Wm. sleep.  For the first time, I’m unsure whether my old boyfriend will be part of my new life–traditionally, they have been kicked to the curb as part of the catharsis.  But I don’t feel his pillow over my face this time and Wm. makes me feel free when we’re together.  Then again, maybe Wm. is just a new kind of prison, suffocating me in a way I don’t yet understand but will kick myself later for in hindsight.  Must be vigilant about not settling.

I know California is where I’ll go.  That’s something, I guess–some direction.  How to get there?  Not just career-wise, or life path-wise, but like logistically…holy shit, moving across the country is a nightmare logistically.  How did I move to Singapore?  I had friends then, storing things for me in Boston.  Lugging my suitcases to the airport.  Packing up my life…I don’t even think I can drive a U-Haul to California.  I mean, I’m a fucking terrible driver.  Nina did it, but she had her mom.  Who would I have?

I shift my leg out from under Wm.’s leg, accidentally rousing him.  ”Mmmmmm…you want to cuddle?” he murmurs, half-asleep.

I cuddle obligingly, and stare at his closed eyelids with wide eyes that give away a restless mind.  Silence. “Would you drive with me across the country?”

I’m annoyed that I gave in to my girlish tendencies–I mean, what the hell kind of question is that?  There’s really only one right answer–it’s such an insecure girl sort of question that isn’t actually a query for knowledge but a plea for reassurances and reciprocated feelings.

Wm. grunts.  ”In a Wienermobile?”

I laugh though I know he already can’t hear me in his near-deep sleep.  I begin to drift off myself…because wouldn’t that be quite the adventure.

fresh fish parties

Andrew K: when we have our “fresh fish” parties do you want to be on the list…for fish that is hours old and makes you cream your pants it is so good

Me: i didn’t even know you had fresh fish parties..but yes i love semen + fish

Andrew K: no seriously sometimes the fish is so good its rediculous

Me: no seriously i love semen + fish

Andrew K: no, seriously

Me: no, seriously

Me: i am spreading wombi’s fresh semen from last night on a trout right now…deal with it

things i learned this weekend 1/29/10

1. SoCo and lime shots are not that pussy if you replace the sour mix with the juice from squeezing a lime.
2. The smell of 17 different Scotches will linger horribly in your apartment like a one-night stand with a stage 5 clinger, even after a lot of Febreze.
3. Oddly enough, making out with your roommate lesbian-style will not create as much department gossip as your roommate making out with a random black dude.
4. Making out with a random black dude at a party in front of your ex bf is pretty much the best way to wreak revenge on an ex bf.
5. Strange girls who bum cigarettes now pay it forward with some tongue action.  I am clearly behind the times on smoking etiquette.
6. IHOP not only serves pancakes, but also, cockblock sandwiches.
7. You can, in fact, call 911 even if it’s not an emergency.
8. Only one fireman from Cambridge, MA can fit in our hallway at a time.  Two cannot pass each other.
9. It is somehow obvious to emergency responders that we went to MIT, despite no telltale paraphernalia in our living room and no penises in our pants.
10. In contradiction to the tenets of He’s Just Not That Into You, sometimes guys really don’t make the first move, even if they like you.
11. The roommate upgrade is, surprisingly, totally doable (sexually).
12. When most people make drunken mistakes, they wake up in a bed next to some dude.  When I make a drunken mistake, I wake up alone next to my vibrator.
13. Red wine flip cup is actually not as hard as it sounds.  When you’re playing.  About an hour later, you’re glad it wasn’t a core class in grad school because you’d have to fail that one too.
14. The reverse flip cup.
15. Sentence structure plays an important role in the mechanism of persuasion.  “Do it, you won’t!” somehow exerts infinitely more peer pressure than “you won’t do it”.
16. No matter how insane or unique your coat looks, it can and will be stolen at a club.
17. Don’t ever wager a bet with Matt Smith.  You WILL lose.

first run

My feet pounded on the pavement to the beats of Lily Allen as I rounded the curve into Cambridge, a wave of euphoria washing over me at the sight of the glowing Royal Sonesta sign.  I grinned to myself; it was good to be back.  I would miss the rush of adventure and infinite possibilities that constantly filled my head in Singapore, but for now, there were no thoughts.  Just the river breeze streaming through my hair and city lights dancing across the midnight water.  And easy running.  Distracted by my self-absorbing content, I missed the hard left and ended up running towards Kendall Square instead of back down Memorial Drive.  Bummer, this was going to cut down my mileage significantly.  Hypotenusely, actually.  Wish that was an adverb but I guess it would only be useful in distance situations.  But metaphorical distance situations too…

I considered turning back to take the adjacent and opposite legs of the triangle-route.  I rather needed it; Singapore had done awful things to my appetite.  Namely, I had grown accustomed to overeating.  Food was cheap, and anyway, how many opportunities was I going to get in this lifetime to eat stingray?  And chili crab?  And mee goreng?  Besides, even though I was most likely consuming upwards of 3000 calories a day, I was probably sweating off at least 200 or so just standing around in the heat, right?  That’s how the justifications went in my head.

The endless flashbacks of all the beautiful food I had gorged on in the past 3 months weighed me down, and the spring in my step bated as running became a chore again.  Screw turning back–I was already on Main Street, might as well just head home.  I could see the familiar “projects” growing bigger as my lead limbs clunked along.  The cluster of low brick buildings wasn’t really “the projects” per se, but it was government-subsidized housing, and relative to the rest of Main Street, the sketchiest block.  I liked the projects, for no particular reason other than they were a landmark reminding me where I lived.

I jogged past a tired mother pushing a stroller alongside an older girl of maybe 8 or 9, who skipped blithely in synch.  As I easily surpassed the stroller, a black bullet shot out from behind me, streaking down the sidewalk.  The girl’s braids flopped haphazardly in the wind, the plastic of her colorful barrettes knocking against each other.  Ha.  She was racing me.  I kept my pace steady, knowing my longer legs would outstrip her once she could no longer sprint with abandon.  As I came even with her, I looked down, and she grinned at me happily, not in the least concerned that she was losing, her arms flailing about without rhythm in perfect childlike form.  I laughed.  She wasn’t running to compete with me.  She didn’t run to get somewhere faster, or to lose those extra winter pounds so she could feel comfortable with her naked body during sex with her boyfriend.  She ran to be free.  To have fun, and maybe play with a stranger.

I glanced over my shoulder, and saw her waiting on the sidewalk for her mother, bouncing up and down impatiently.  She swiveled to look at me one last time, and I waved, silently thanking her for the reminder.

easy bidding

I pounced on the king-sized bed, sprawling all fours across the embroidered bedspread, and exhaled in deep satisfaction. I despise made beds–I like mine to look rumpled and comfy, inviting. But I make an exception when it comes to hotel beds at 4 PM. I prefer to lie on my stomach on top of the smoothed blanket and prop my chin underneath my knuckles to watch TV with the ideal prospect of falling into a quick slumber before some fabulous dinner I have to wear a dress at. But I didn’t turn on the TV, because my parents do not make it a habit to pack formalwear in anticipation of attending sumptuous dinners on vacation. They sport fanny packs and polo shirts with pharmaceutical drug brands stitched into the breast pockets while arguing over maps folded 40 times too many. And in this particular moment, they also recount their savvy bargaining on priceline.com for the umpteenth time:

“…and that’s why you just have to ask for what you want. $100 for THIS room on graduation weekend in a college town like Boston?! I thought, no way, they won’t take my bid, but that’s why you have to TRY…”

I rolled over onto my back and stuck out my palm, eyes glued the ceiling moldings. “Nice one, Dad, you’re a real badass. Can I have a peach?”

He rummaged through the twenty-some plastic bags we’d lugged from Haymarket and tossed me a warm fuzzy.

“So how is E.? What is he like?” Mom interrupted. Wow, she must be really desperate for a topic change. I didn’t blame her. She’d probably had front seats to the live, play-by-play online bidding last month.

They had agreed to meet E. for the first time at my graduation, so we were going to dinner at Tresca in the North End tomorrow night. I lay momentarily speechless, finally managing, “He’s good, I guess…he’s a nice guy.”

“Do you like him?”

I smiled at the ceiling. “Yes. I think we will be together for a very long time.” I said this matter-of-factly–I simply could not imagine a time, place, or reason why we would NOT be together.

“Oh, really?” Mom sounded surprised. “Why do you think that?”

I shrugged, sinking my teeth into the soft peach. I licked my lips, catching the juice running to their edges. “I don’t know…we’re just…right for each other, a good match, you know what I mean?”

Dad smiled knowingly. “Yes, I know what you mean.”

Perplexed, I remembered how I used to list every achievement and amenable personality trait of past boyfriends when my mother probed, trying vainly to convince her of their worthiness. Tyler spoke six languages, Wilkerson was president of his fraternity, John…well let’s face it, John was just plain adorable. Even the hard-nosed chairman had to concede to that one. And yet, my parents had just completely accepted my vague explanation of why I was dating E., no skepticism or bubble-bursting rebuttals served up on the side. Was love really that transparent, and dare I say it…simple? Easy to believe, to recognize, to make sense of?

Needless to say, things got complicated–like, Facebook-relationship-status-complicated, and it’s difficult to tell who fell out of love first. It took me a very long time to admit this change of heart which in truth, must have been quite obvious (reminds me of that bathtub scene in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere tells Julia Roberts he dropped 10 g’s to finally declare aloud “I was very aaaaaangry with my father”). For years, I clung to the belief that the breakup was a result of circumstance, logistics, bad timing, whatever–but never a lack of feeling. And yet, at the end of the day, that’s what it has to come down to, doesn’t it?

I’ve fished in the pond pretty frequently since then and as the months have passed, the absence of Prince Charming (and also my slightly more realistic alternative, John Cusack) has encouraged me to settle more, to forgive that midget fin and compromise with discolored scales. To weigh pro/con lists and agree to oooone more date on the offchance that I’ve been totally mistaken about him during the last three. Somehow I’ve developed this mantra that relationships take effort and love ain’t easy…but the thing is, it is. It’s just that it only comes once in a blue moon, when you score a really, really great deal on a hotel room.

magnum

Yim: so i bought some magnum condoms to see how they fit
Yim: they fit

Me: so your penis is magnum?

Yim: magnum is largely marketing i thnk
Yim: its a little wider than a normal condom
Yim: ie the ring
Yim: well thats 6 bucks i wont get back
Yim: bought the smallest number they had which was a 3 pack

Me: um but you can use them so it’s not a waste of money right

Yim: yeah but i dont use condoms with laura.

Me: you should test out the magnum XL

Yim: i tihnkthats for something ridiculous, like 8-9″

Me: you’re afraid to test it aren’t you

Yim: well the thing about testing condoms
Yim: is if it fits
Yim: you feel a sense of accomplishment
Yim: but once you dont fill it
Yim: …
Yim: i have no problem testing it
Yim: but why dampen the high haha

Me: so to be clear
Me: to “test” this
Me: you had to jack off
Me: until you were hard
Me: and then put on the condom?

Yim: yup

Me: you’re such a weirdo

Yim: jacked off to completion to make sure it wouldnt slip or anything
Yim: scientifically rigorous

Me: god this is so going on the blog

ode to the flavors of cambridge

The food in Singapore is, in general, vastly superior to the food back in Boston. But I’ve got a few places close to my heart that house both memories and delicious eats back in Beantown. I will start by enumerating those in Cambridge. Keep in mind, these are not necessarily the best places or a comprehensive list, just what Joan’s been missing:

Toscanini’s. Their coffee, espresso, and coffee ice cream sandwich flavors (and yes, they really do taste different), but most of all, their mango ice cream. Not the sorbet. Nothing could be more refreshing than their raspberry Italian soda, except maybe the lemon whipped cream in their eclectic small-bites brunch. Three cheese scones; especially when they’re free after 5 PM. I heat’em up in the microwave upstairs. I miss lattes in their giant coffee mugs filled to the brim with foam, sometimes with a cute design, maybe a smiley face or a heart. I heart you too, Tosci’s.

Punjabi Dhaba. It brings out the ghetto love in me. Mango lassi + naan + shahi paneer combo plate is my go-to move here, but everything is delish, and more importantly, cheap. Eating upstairs where it’s dirty and hot, and away from the long line of customers. The summer heat makes the place stuffy, even at 11 PM at night, and that’s how I like it.

Mariposa Bakery. Every time I eat here with someone, it’s great conversation. Don’t know why, must be some ingredient they inject into their avocado sandwich–my fave, on baked-from-scratch honey wheat bread. If I’m feeling manly that day, the thick-cut pastrami’s a good alternative. The horseradish is tear-worthy.

IHOP. I shouldn’t have to explain this.

Muqueca. A neighborhood gem in Inman, but possibly the best Brazilian in Boston, especially if we’re talking seafood and not meat. I was only introduced to this place a year ago, but I’ve already gone four times again since. Nowhere better for a colorful seafood casserole and hot (temperature-wise), burning-your-tongue-off plantains. Friends are fans of the yucca.

Miracle of Science. Three words: cheddar jack cheese. I practically lived at Miracle during the summer of 2008; a lot of shizz went down there. I miss the feel of chalkboard under my fingertips. And occasionally falling off their stools, and most of all, the cute bartenders in their hipster-than-thou clothing. I once went to an art exhibit in an abandoned factory in Southie b/c the bartender invited me. It was a pretty sweet exhibit.

Not the Asgard. I shouldn’t have to explain this.

1369 Coffeehouse. Also have had legendary conversations here, the most memorable of which involves a debate on whether women can lactate if you mechanically stimulate the breast enough. 1369 is perfect in the winter; I miss their hot apple cider. Never too sweet, always steaming hot.

EVOO. As Steve would say, his go-to date place. I really don’t have a favorite entree here, b/c everything is cooked to perfection. Sea bass, lamb, cooked mango…I miss their cocktails too, which are always strong, always inventive. I do not, however, miss their ass-slow service and waiting even though I booked a reservation two weeks beforehand. Speaks volumes about their food though, that it could compensate for this.

Pho Pasteur, aka Le’s. The $6.25 chicken noodle soup and their spring rolls. If I want to go somewhere when I’m feeling under the weather, I hit up Pho.

Berryline. Soft serve frozen yogurt that’s fat-free isn’t a big deal, but Berryline gets the right amount of tartness in the flavor. Pinkberry and Tasti D-lite have nothing on Berryline. Original, strawberry, orange, banana…all the flavors taste perfect together in combo.

Sunny’s Diner. Hands down the best breakfast for nursing a hangover. Spanish omelette is my norm, but Sunny’s is one of the few places where I deign to order the pancakes too. Usually I saturate too quickly on them and only make it through one, but it’s worth it. Ooooooh it. is. worth. it.

Finale in Harvard Square. For some reason, I always end up at this one instead of the branch in Park Plaza. Of course, the desserts are great–their seasonal panna cotta is my personal sin–but their Prelude menu is worthy as well. They serve great olives.

Zoe’s. The food here isn’t actually insanely good or memorable, but sometimes I just get a jonesin’ for a diner atmosphere, and Zoe’s deffo hits the spot on that front.

Bluefin. Introduced to me by M. in my sophomore year, Bluefin and I go waaaay back. Years before the renovated half-space. (I prefer eating in the old-school section, with the sturdy wooden chairs). I’ve probably sunk upwards of thousands of dollars on this place, and I’m still lusting after the t-shirts the waitstaff wears. Agedashi tofu, gyoza, tempura, spicy salmon and eel rolls, mackerel nigiri. Classic without frills (not too many special rolls here), cheap, good quality. Be still my heart.

Porter Square Exchange. It’s always a toughie when I reach Porter Square to decide between Bluefin and the little Korean and Japanese food nooks next to it. Usually comes down to time and money. If I’m looking for a quick $10 dinner, food nooks it is. They’re all tasty, and I never go wrong ordering katsu-don or noodles. I’ve never tried out Kotobukiya for their sushi, but I’ve heard it’s a good bang for the buck.

The Similans. Its more famous counterpart, Brown Sugar Cafe, is just too far to frequent, but their menus are practically identical. Plus Similans delivers to Cambridge. Thai iced tea + mango fried rice and I’m a happy camper.

Emma’s. The way their diet coke comes in those classic tiny glass bottles instead of a normal-sized aluminum can is completely quaint, and completely frustrating halfway through my all-meat pizza. I find the simpler pizzas at Emma’s are best; too many complex ingredients usually equals too many personalities and no specific taste cuts through. I’ve never had red wine with my pizza there, and sort of wish I had.

Clover. I have to give this one to Steve too. Clover is the best MIT food truck ever to exist. Chickpea fritter, hibiscus iced tea, and rosemary fries are the solution to a shitty day in lab. That, or drinking and boning. I only found out about Clover a few months before I left, but the menu isn’t large, so I’ve pretty much tried everything on there. Clover pretty much cemented my friendship forever with Steve.

Oleana. Expensive, but worth it, unlike many restaurants in the city. One of the few Mediterranean places that I actually feel is within the genre of the food. It might not be too far to say that Oleana is the best food in Cambridge, but the pricey-ness is somewhat limiting.

Ole Mexican Grill. I miss the fabulous margs, and Mexican food that either isn’t really Mexican, or could be SO authentic Mexican that I don’t even know it. Best memory of Ole: puking my taquitos all over Sal later that night.

Baraka Cafe. Sweetest lemonade. Really.

Falafel Palace. Clutch. They recently upped their pita bread quality, but I really wouldn’t have noticed if the owner hadn’t told me. I’m usually too drunk to do anything but simulate BJ’s on their falafel. Because it is THAT good.

Rialto. This place wins for best ambience in Cambridge. The food is to die for (and you will lose about an arm and a leg paying for dinner here), but the decor is even better. White mesh curtains and fun-but-functional light green upholstery contrasted against dark mahogany make the eatery blissful and relaxed. Favorite memory here: 8-236 office gathering during Restaurant Week, where we discussed homosexuality markers at length.

Kaya. Most people would probably mention Koreana and not Kaya, as the higher quality of Korean BBQ there is universally agreed upon. I’ve got a soft spot for Kaya though, as we also go waaaay back, maybe even farther than Bluefin. In theory I detest Korean-Japanese fusion restaurants, but sometimes you just want some sushi with your bibimbap. I have many memories hidden inside the private rooms in Kaya where everyone sits on the floor and shares food. And really, the kalbi and bulgogi are up to par; plus, I like their small side snacks better than Koreana’s.

Hi-Fi Pizza. The pizza is pretty shitty and greasy, which is why I love it at 2 AM after a night out at Enormous Room. Perhaps Chicago Pizza should get a shoutout instead, but the quality there is just too high for me to crave it. Pepperoni, please.

Machu Picchu Charcoal Chicken & Grill. The roomies and I woke up after the Ever Clear party around 2 PM, cleaned, and headed straight here on the 91 bus to Union Square. Nothing fixes a rough Sunday like Peruvian chicken and plantains. Not to be confused with its fancier sister restaurant Machu Picchu, just up the street. All relevant roommate gossip occurs during the consumption of Peruvian chicken, and I might not ever return here without them, not even with new roommates.

the kells

I threw on a beater, my black cigarette-leg jeans, large silver hooker hoops, and comfy grey flip-flops. That’s the thing I love about the Kells: zero pretension. No need to bust out the 4-inch heels or show off any fashion prowess. Some might label the Kells as “ghetto”, but I prefer the term “undergrad”–its patrons are young, down for anything, and willing to push the limits of propriety. Perfect for the last hurrah with the former freshman roommate.

“Three double shots of SoCo and lime,” Nina shouted at the bartender over the music. She handed her friend Arian and me the miniature plastic cups filled with honey-colored libations. We toasted and marveled at the plastic cups. The Kells is awesome. We did another double shot.

“Joan, you and me together, we have to keep up with Arian!”

Pssssh. I only had to drink half the number of his drinks? Easy. “Two Long Island iced teas and one white Russian,” I ordered. I handed Arian and Nina their gigantic Long Islands and waited patiently for my Russian. When I turned around with drink in hand, Arian had already finished his Long Island. Fuck, the sophomore could drink.

“Two double shots of tequila!”

“What kind?”

Embarrassed, Nina leaned over the counter to talk in his ear. “Your cheapest.”

Arian downed both double shots of Cuervo like water. We’d only been here for 20 minutes and he’d already done 6 shots and a Long Island. Wonder how much a bottle at the Kells even costs?

As the clock neared midnight, the crowd began pouring in. The extremely ASIAN crowd. Did I black out and forget that I already moved to Singapore?

“What the FUCK, is this Asian night?! Did I not get this memo? This sucks, everyone here is Asian,” I fumed.

“Well, except for me,” a voice behind me interjected. And hellllloooooo tall drink of white white milk.

I raised my eyebrows and gave him a once-over. “I dooo have a thing for the tall white guys…”

“JOAN!!” Nina screeched in disbelief, yanking me away from my vanilla oasis. “You are SO fucking ridiculous!”

I rolled my eyes. “Let’s dance.”

Despite whoring myself out to even the shortest, greasiest, and worst dancers, I could not for the life of me score a friggin’ drink. I could hear Arian yelling, “Capitalize! Capitalize!” at me every time he spotted a new fellow entering the joanzone. What did he think I was trying to do? Get recommendations for cheap hair products?

Disillusioned with the dancefloor, I moved back to the bar where perhaps my silver tongue would get me further than my grinding. I chatted up three decent-looking palefaces to no avail. What was going on? Where was my mojo? Must be all this Asian vag around…I was like a valence electron trying to break through a thick electron shield to reach the nucleus. Stupid shielding effect. The last guy seemed genuinely interested in me and couldn’t fork over 5 bucks for my Corona.

Regardless, I touched base with him off and on throughout the night out of pure boredom, and because he wasn’t bad-looking. Oddly enough, he was there with 3 Thai guys, who were very Thai. Their English was mostly incomprehensible, but I gathered they all lived together. The one with waist-length hair sat down next to me. “My father just die yesterday.”

WTF?

“Your father just died?”

“Yes. I am sad.”

“Maybe you should be at home or something…”

White Guy intercepted. “Nah he needs to be out so he doesn’t think about it.”

This was getting a little too heavy for me. “Alright well, nice meeting all of you, I’m going to find my friends now,” I proclaimed, backing away slowly.

Sensing he was losing me, White Guy grabbed my arm. “Wait, you want to come over? We live really close to here, like right down the street.”

“Yeaaah, I don’t think so, I don’t want to ditch my friends.” I smiled, gritting my teeth.

“Oh they’re welcome to come over too!”

Ah fuck. I found Arian outside the women’s bathroom waiting for Nina. “Some white guy invited us over to his place but I don’t really want to go so–”

“Does he have weed?”

“…Are you serious? You want to go over?”

“Well does he have weed?”

I found White Guy and the three Thais where I left them. “Do you have weed?”

“Yeah we have weed and beer.”

Well, whoop-dee-doo.

To be continued in the next post…

the american dream

If I knew of your existence a few months ago on August 8, 2008 (8/8/08), I probably invited you to our epic Ever Clear party, meant to celebrate our new apartment above Toscanini’s. Whether you remember that night or not really depends on how much of the juice you drank.

What we the hosts remembered most (and appreciated) was that it was CLEAN. No beer bottles. No stains. Which really was the intent of the party theme: all clear or white drinks and mixers. I don’t quite remember whose idea it was to call the party Ever Clear, but regardless, you can’t throw an Ever Clear party without some good ol’ Midwestern grain alcohol. Unfortunately, in our great liberal state of Massachusetts, it is, in fact, illegal to sell Everclear. By contrast, in St. Louis, MO (headquarters of the primary manufacturer of Everclear, Luxco), sodomy is illegal but not liquid fire. Sometimes the hicks get it right.

But no biggie, E. is coincidentally driving down from NH that weekend and according to Wikipedia, NH is not among the states that disallow Everclear. This is what exes are for.

Me: Make sure you get the real stuff, not the 151 proof.
E: Are you sure this stuff is legal in NH?
Me: …isn’t everything legal in NH?

E. agrees to pick some up on Thursday (8/7/08). I get a call that afternoon, and my opinion of NH drops like the Dow circa two months later:

E: So…do you want me to replace the Everclear with some other alcohol?
Me: Uuuuugh…fuckin’ A, tack on another handle of vodka.

Goddamn Wikipedia. I break the bad news to my roomies while we pour our 5th tray of island pineapple-flavored Jell-O shots (sounds theoretically gross but trust me, delicious). Party-prepping morale is instantly crushed. We give up on scoring Everclear in time, rationalizing that everyone will be too wastefaced to even notice or care tomorrow.

But even as we made this decision, I couldn’t admit defeat. Logic said the Everclear was trivial–yet my juvenile heart argued, pounding in refusal. Something in me wanted tomorrow night to be epic, life-changing. Like prom, or the night you finally muster up the courage to kiss THAT boy. I was suddenly living that pivotal moment in all teen movies, when everything has gone to crap and hit rock-bottom, and the former skeptic stands up and inexplicably makes a motivating speech to turn things around. Cue the montage.

I loaded up the Luxco website, finding a list of states that sell Everclear. No more secondary sources. If I’d listened to my elementary school teachers more, I wouldn’t be in this pickle. My eyes scanned and followed the text next to my finger scrolling down the screen.

Colorado.

I call up an old acquaintance, Ryan, who is coincidentally flying in from Denver on Friday for a weekend of debauchery with the guys. I’m unable to catch hold of him, so I text his wife, D. Ryan is one of those truly good and sweet gentlemen who rarely denies a favor, and consequently, I feel as if I’m taking advantage. It’s easier on my conscience to ask D. Straightforward and no pushover, she always speaks her mind without being callous. I haven’t spoken to her in almost a year, not since they moved out West. I don’t miss her but I like her a lot.

Later that night, even the delectable aroma of Indonesian fried rice can’t keep my hands on the eating utensils. I’m sneakily flipping open my phone every 30 seconds to check my messages under the coffee table. We’re sitting Indian-style around Yoda’s banquet of home-cooked food, sipping Franzia and Coke out of red Solo cups, and psyching ourselves up for tomorrow night. It’s psyching me out. As my friends declare their solid ambitions to get sloppy, my apprehension grows with the silence of my cell. While I appreciated their enthusiasm, I’m not comfortable with high expectations.

But my phone beeps, and relief washes over me. “We’ve got the Everclear!” I announce, interrupting several conversation threads. High-fives and w00ting commence, and I take a triumphant gulp of my Coke.

———————–

Bzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz…clackity clack. I roll over underneath my luxuriously poufy blanket and squint at my clock. 10 AM. Game day. Waaaait a second, my alarm didn’t go off. That was not my alarm. I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of my bed, accidentally stepping on a small square of smooth plastic. My phone had vibrated itself onto the floor. I flip it open and read Ryan’s message. FUCK. Fuckity fuck fuck FUCK. I am a complete dick.

“Wait, so he put the Everclear in his checked luggage, right?!” Nina’s voice sounded as high-strung as I felt.

“Of course he did, you can’t carry on that much liquid.”

“So how did the TSA know he was bringing on Everclear?”

“I don’t know, they do random searches on checked baggage too. Ryan was already seated on the plane when they came on and asked him if the Everclear was his.”

“The TSA boarded the plane?”

“Apparently. They said they’d hold on to it, and he could pick it up when he returned.”

“Christ. Tell me Ryan’s white.”

“Ryan’s super-white. And he’s like, the nicest person ever.” Ugh I couldn’t believe I’d caused an innocent man to be reprimanded by the TSA. I’m such an asshole.

“Good. Cuz you just know if he were black…” Her voice trailed off.

“I know.” I sighed. I didn’t know, but whatever, racial profiling was not my primary concern at the moment.

“So wow, the TSA knew Everclear is illegal in Mass?”

“No, it’s not illegal to transport Everclear across state lines, it’s just illegal to bring anything over 170 proof onto a plane.”

“Shit, what proof is Everclear?”

“190.”

I’m totally useless at work as I gchat the usual suspects about my humiliating failure–best to disappoint early on before the party got started. I’m whining to Brian Beliveau, who is still in disbelief that Everclear isn’t sold in New Hampshire.

“I know, it doesn’t make sense to me either, but it’s not legal there. It’s legal in Rhode Island and Connecticut, but not New Hampshire, and not Massachusetts,” I listed, resigned.

“Rhode Island is 2 hours away, that’s totally feasible.”

“Brian, it’s like…1 PM right now. Who am I going to convince who has a car, doesn’t need to be at work, and wants to drive to Rhode ISLAND?”

———————–

“Hello?” Alex’s voice sounded scratchy and sleepy, most likely from the Franzia last night.

“Hi, it’s me; listen, doesn’t Byron have a car?”

“Yeeeeeah…”

“What’s his phone number?”

“What is this about?”

“I need someone to drive to Rhode Island to buy me Everclear. I’ll pay for the gas.”

“Are you serious?! What happened to your dude?”

For the millionth time that day, I explained the TSA guidelines for flying alcohol cross-country. Alex listened quietly, and with a steely note in his voice, proclaimed, “I’m down. I’ll go with Byron.”

“Don’t you have shit to do in lab?”

“Fuck lab.”

I called Byron six times in the next hour, but his phone repeatedly went straight to voicemail. I gchatted Yoda, who claimed she hadn’t seen him in lab but he wouldn’t get reception in the med center if he was working there…

I punched in Alex’s number angrily. “Where the hell is your boy Byron?!” I snapped, skipping over pleasantries. “His phone keeps going straight to voicemail.”

“Aw yeah, he doesn’t get reception at his apartment. I bet he’s still sleeping.”

“Who doesn’t get reception in their freaking home?! And it’s like…it’s 2 PM in the afternoon!! Don’t you people have WORK?”

“Just email him. He gets Internet at home, he’ll check his email when he gets up.”

My fingernails clicked quickly over my laptop keys, chipping polish in the process. Hm. I should probably get my nails done before tonight. No time, no time. Must focus…

Miraculously, email did prove to be the quickest method of communicating with Byron. He called me within minutes of my email, and I went through the whole story again.

“Give me twenty minutes. I’ll pick up Alex at school; you get me directions to the closest liquor store in Rhode Island with Everclear,” he commanded, sounding fully alert.

“Omg I love you Byron. I think I am in love with you. Thankyouthankyouthankyou…but…so you don’t have to go into lab today?”

“Fuck lab.”

And that is how a few graduate students with grossly misplaced priorities came together in a juvenile quest to obtain illegal substances. That, my friend, is the great American dream.

trading

I am not ashamed to admit I order the Thai peanut tofu at Goosebeary’s. Sure, foodtruck food is sketchy; they use the same “special sauce” on everything, but it’s $3.50 and I’m not a picky eater. Clutching my white Styrofoam box and plastic fork, I did my quick grad-student-walk to the Biocafé tables and plopped down next to my labmate Robbie, careful not to spill any sauce over the sides of the Styrofoam.

“Whatcha got in there?” I asked, peering nosily into his plastic grocery bag.

“Salad, manicotti, chocolate chip cookies, and homemade cheesecake Megan made last night,” he replied, as he assembled his Tupperware nicely in the order of execution. My mouth watering, I felt transported back to the third grade, when I’d regularly barter my extra tater tots for one of Brooke Rosenbaum’s pizza Lunchables.

I offered to trade my tofu for Robbie’s wife. He declined and handed me a cookie, which I thought was pretty fair and not wholly unexpected, especially as tofu << tater tots.

Married grad students have it made. It’s not just the better lunches. They’ve got two incomes and cleaner apartments. Maybe even a car, for those trips to see the fam on special occasions. Granted, you won’t be spotting them at Underbar on Friday nights, but that’s because they’re participating in the glorious regular sex privileged upon newlyweds. Glorious, hot, condomless sex—without the three $12 drink minimum required to bag a girl at Gypsy Bar. And there would be no STDs or hangovers the next morning, allowing the married grad student to maintain both superior hygiene and a diligent work schedule that starts before 10 AM.

But aside from these superficial differences, they exude a general aura of…composure. Of poise. Maybe it’s the inherent maturity that comes with marital responsibility, but my gut says there’s something else. While other grad students exist in a constant mode of restrained panic, the married appear to be somewhat immune to the perpetual undercurrents of stress at MIT. More self-assured, their emotional well-being seems less bound to the rollercoaster progress of their theses. Perhaps this emotional stability is just a result of having a steady supporter cheering in their corner. Or maybe to them, graduate research feels more akin to a real-life job, a source of income—instead of a personal investment upon which our egos and self-fulfillment rely. Those three letters attached to our names translate to a certain identity that defines us—something that once won, can never be taken away. I wonder if ‘Mrs.’ renders the same, or at least a competitive, effect.

Committing to the love of your life undoubtedly puts things in perspective and reorganizes your priorities. The Western blot can be left for tomorrow when dinner with the future mother of your child is waiting. Too many of us choose lab at the end of the day, giving up sleep, concerts, wine with the girls, spring break (the WOO HOO! kind), and movies with old friends. Later, we say. After oral exams or quals, after we finish writing up that paper. We make these little trades every day. There is a pervading sense of putting our lives on hold for 5+ years. Sacrificing now for a better future: a quicker, stronger debut into the “real world”. Are we losing the battle to maintain balance and sanity? The married aren’t. Whether they realize it or not, they’ve developed a foolproof strategy for achieving this. While the rest of us are essentially waiting to begin adulthood, they have already reached out and grabbed life by the horns—even if in a most ordinary and conventional way.

But alas, here I sit: single, possibly losing the battle. Hung over on a Sunday, wallet light from last night’s activities. Nursing my headache with a Bloody Mary at brunch, and consequently, getting a late start in lab of course. I look around. Then again, so will Matt. And Alex. And Nina. With my fork, I spear a home-fried potato chunk marinating in grease off Nina’s plate. If love is all about timing, then I suppose our synchronous tardiness makes us soulmates. Watching my comrades chatter and laugh, I decisively shove the fork into my mouth. I am unwilling to trade this potato, this moment. Besides, my husband would have to eat some pretty shitty homemade cheesecake.