You Can Call Me Honest John

My friends say I am a pathological liar and to some extent I cannot argue with them. I do lie. Everyone does. I started when I learned to talk and never held back because as far as liars go, I consider myself Glinda the Good Witch. I never make stuff up-- I just copy edit every story in my head until by the time the tale is finally repeated at a family dinner or friendly gathering, my presentation is as polished as a presidential address. Just like turning a rock over and over will smooth the edges, I tumble over my days until I have tailored each pause and change in intonation to a tee. This compulsion makes me wildly popular at dinner parties and work gatherings. I like to think.

I have never been caught although my friends might raise an eyebrow at a particularly theatrical rendition of a trip to the grocery store. That is, until last night.

Outfitted in our party gear and wearing so much mascara would could barely lift our eyelids, we bellied up to the bar at our favorite Friday night haunt. The trick is to get your beers early, before the place gets really jammed, and set up shop at the corner of the bar by the band. We were scoping out the crowd and had barely gotten our drinks when, what would soon become my kryptonite, stumbled into our midst.

He was loud and had a thick Boston accent and introduced himself by asking, "How much does a polar bear weigh? Enough to break the ice! I'm Ryan, Ryan, Ryan."

I vomited into my mouth. Unperturbed by our blank expressions he began to quiz us individually on our hometown, hobbies and profession and I watched my friends effortlessly answer with complete bull shit. Alyssa, Jackie and Rachel from Brookline became Kaitlyn, Ashley and Sarah from Allston. They talked about their jobs at their research labs, and even came up with plausible names for their labs and the fellowships they had received. Which is even more admirable considering only one of them was even a science major in college. Bolstered by their success, I felt prepared when the attention was directed at me and Ryan asked my name.

"Ummmmmm..." Silence ensued and I could think of nothing. Not my name, not my mother's name, I could have said freaking Mary Magdalen for crying out loud, this total idiot would have bought it in a second. Instead I said, "I think I have to go to the bathroom?" I am sure even the band stopped playing at that moment as I turned and slowly made my way to the bathroom, my face scarlet and my friends' howls of laughter clearly audible behind me.

I went home and polished my Good Witch crown.

Last Night

Ugh. I am standing with my forehead pressed against a mailbox on the corner of Harvard Ave and Vernon St. My best friend is standing next to me, her eyes closed, swaying to remain upright while the world spins past the backs of her eyelids. What did we do in the last twenty four hours that could have possibly been terrible enough to deserve such punishment? Oh right. Fifteen alcohol units. FUUUCCCCKKKKK.

I mean, it was a post grad mistake. It can happen to anyone. Here we were, heading off to a good night out, wisened by the fact that we have been training for nights like these for the past four years, because, lets face it, what else is college for if not building my tolerance so at 5'4" I can drink more than most 200lb hockey players? But since the days of partying five nights a week have been gone for two full months now, my resistance has faded and I am out of party shape. I mean, I party. I can party with the best of them! But my nights of multiple keg stands and rounds of shots are behind me and I can carry out a buzz on eight or nine beers. However, I arrived at my friends' apartment and overcome with excitement and anticipation, proceeded to consume the equivalent of 7 shots of vodka before we even reached the cab. Convinced I was not feeling a buzz, I drank my way through the front bar, the back bar, the downstairs bar, and back upstairs with shots on every staircase. Which is how I came to lean on the mailbox. At 12:45.

My friend slept on the bathroom floor and I let her, making us both look like fools. When she crawled into bed at six in the morning I had to wonder: was the last four years really worth $100,000 if the only real knowledge I was expected to acquire was my alcohol limit- something I obviously am not aware of? Did I peak too soon? An epic flaw in my conditioning schedule would put me out of partying late into my twenties. I guess I just figured I would never live that long anyway. I mean when your 18, 30 is OLD. And after my skin began to lose collagen at age 20, lets face it, I was planning on checking out as soon as I was legal. Now I am having to reevaluate. At age 21 I have only one spider vein from a run in with a towel bar and no wrinkles on my face thanks to religious sunscreen application. If i am still that young on the surface, I must have at least three more years of partying ahead of me.

So I will revamp my training schedule. I will continue to drink with a renewed energy and vigor. I will make a comeback that would rival Secretariat, remain in drinking shape well into my mid twenties, hopefully outliving the horse by at least four years.

Dream Books

Since I neither dream, nor care to know about anyone else's dreams my most recent project is genuinely for you, my people! Hazzah! Dream books! Each tiny booklet is bound with a different stab binding stitch. They ride together in their case, held shut with your dream-documenting pencil! Now you can write down your dreams, and remember them for always.

Goodbye Copper Plates

I have been busily destroying my copper etching plates and turning them into these charming NECKLACES! Hung from a suede string, my etchings are looking mighty fine and serving the dual purpose of personal adornment as well as saving space in my overcrowded room.

My dog Georgia is having a tumor the size of a basketball removed from her spleen tomorrow. I offered to donate blood but apparently we are not the same type. Whatever. Instead the vet suggested option b: drive to Bourne and wait in traffic for two hours to pick up two liters of golden retriever blood. My mom put it in my lunch box with some cold packs and now it is lying on top of the tortillas in our fridge. Delicious!

In the meantime we are hoping for the best and giving George and her "growth" lots of love.