Zzzzzzzzzzzzz Season

I guess I succumbed to the marketing of this movie as another glorious effort in the vein of Spellbound and the 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee (which I haven't seen, but which I heard is a play that's almost as good as Avenue Q), and it's my own fault for that, but what was up with Bee Season? Did anyone see this movie and actually understand it?

I mean, I get the components, generally. I get why the son runs off to be a Hare Krishna with Kate Bosworth. I get the daughter, and I like her, and I feel for her. I mostly get Richard Gere's character. I don't get the mother at all, and, as the Smelmooo pointed out, I'd rather her storyline be that she's having an affair or something, because her actual story makes my head hurt, and the visuals made me dizzy and nauseated, so maybe that's why I don't get it. Maybe I just need to read the book that inspired the movie? I don't know. Any insight would be appreciated, but please don't watch this movie just for me.

On another note, I keep imagining movie-endings to real-life events (not my own -- events related to public figures). Like, when Matt Lauer interviewed Lindsay Lohan a few weeks ago, and asked about the drug use and eating disorder stuff that came up in her Vanity Fair interview. In real life, Lindsay brushed it off and basically said, "Oh, no, I'm good. Everything's fine; I'm good."

But in my movie-ending, she starts sniffling, quietly at first, and then just breaks down, mascara running down her face, then sobbing, barely able to get the words out that she needs help, that she's so glad Matt brought it up so she doesn't have to go through it alone anymore. She then goes straight to Promises, where she meets the smart-alecky, non-famous, good-hearted relative of a fellow patient, and they fall in love and move to Montana and live happily ever after.

See? That's a movie I would get.

Ahhhhh....the long weekend....

I wish that every weekend in the summer were three days long; it just brings me so much joy, and I firmly believe I could be as productive in four work days as five if the promise of three days of unmitigated bliss lay before me.

Okay, maybe "unmitigated" is an overstatement -- there's the laundry and the weeding and the picking up dog poop -- but even those mundane and annoying tasks are more enjoyable on a long weekend.

I've been making lots of desserts for weekend barbecues, for which our friends have told us basically to bring dessert, some lawn chairs, extra beer if we feel like it, ourselves and Tucker. I adore being assigned dessert, and as a hostess I should probably do more assigning of dessert to our guests, but it's the only thing I'm really consistently good at, other than omelets, so unless I'm hosting a brunch -- which I've never done, but should -- or cooking for hungover sleepover guests (which I have done, to great appreciation), that last one doesn't come in terribly handy.

But it's nice to have the time to do this stuff: to bake cookies and take multiple trips to Home Depot and do yard work and take walks with our dog and have picnics and go to barbecues and watch really bad TV (the Smelmooo has called dibs on writing about this one absurd show we watched last night and then Ti-Fauxed so we could watch the outcome this morning...we're so pathetic).

I've spent a lot of Memorial Day weekends, or parts of them, at the Jersey Shore. My high school friend Jen and I used to go down to Point Pleasant first thing Saturday morning and read trashy magazines and eat really bad food and listen to really cheesy music. And, more recently, I've enjoyed visiting the boardwalk festivities in Bradley Beach, near my parents' place, where on Memorial Day they set up several blocks of tents and booths, one of which sells the yummiest fudge in the universe, and several of which sell fried Oreos and fried Twinkies and junk.

I love the Jersey Shore, and there's something perfect about kicking off the summer there, but right now, there's nothing more perfect to me than spending the weekend closer to home, being with my guys and seeing some good friends and having the time and space to enjoy it all.

Dainty, like a Clydesdale

Today kicks off our summer of business-casual attire at work, which Minnams writes about far more engagingly than I do, especially about the men's choices, which range from safe, conservative khakis and plan polos to crazy Hawaiian shirts with too-dressy pants and shoes. It's a bizarre mixed bag.

One of the beautiful things about the shift to business casual is the lifting of the leg-covering requirement. Lots of people (Minnams) go bare-legged whenever the weather permits, but my legs are so ghastly, ghostly white that I can't get away with it, and I don't want to subject people to them anyway. But once the official business-casual is on, I just don't care, and I am very happy to wear sandals and skirts and not have to worry about tights or stockings, sunglare from the legs be damned.

Anyway, I wanted to be a little springy/summery today, something cute to go with my new hair, which I'm still loving, although I think the humidity is making it curl weirdly today, but at least it's not all in my face. So I'm wearing a lightweight skirt and a plain top (which could probably use a necklace, but I don't have one that looks right -- see, Minnams? I'm at least noticing now, even if I don't care enough to actually accumulate appropriate accessories) and sandals with a little heel. All very ladylike, really.

Until I walked back to my office from a meeting on the second floor, when I began descending the stairs with a resounding CLOMP-CLOMP-CLOMP. Not like a flip-floppy thwip-thwip-thwip, but a booming noise, like I weighed a thousand pounds and the steps might collapse under my weight. I had this same issue with a pair of sandals I wore on our honeymoon, which embarrassed the hell out of the Smelmooo when we walked from our eighth-floor cabin to the dining room on the main deck, but I thought the ones I'm wearing today were okay. Only on flat surfaces, though.

So to avoid all the racket, I started walking sort of sideways down the stairs, like I was walking up a mountain on skis, only going the opposite direction. I got to the first landing of the steps, and looked up to see Minnams and another of our co-workers staring at me from the second floor, very puzzled looks on their faces.

"My shoes are really noisy, so I'm trying to quit sounding like an elephant."

"I think it's more a Clydesdale."

Indeed, so I've spent the better part of the morning dodging that co-workers horse impressions every time I walk by.

My teachers in Catholic school always liked to say, "You act the way you're dressed." I think it's gonna be a looooooooong business casual summer around here, if that's the case.

I couldn't care less

I've recently seen a spate of movies by which I'm at least vaguely annoyed because the characters that I assume I'm supposed to care about are completely one-dimensional. And I don't care about them at all, or see why I should care about them, and even if these were otherwise good movies (which I don't think applies, actually), I'd hate them a little just for being so lazy about writing these characters:

1. Cheryl Hines, RV. (I know, I know. It was what was playing at the drive-in, though!)
I kind of like Cheryl Hines, generally; I don't love her, but I think she's fine and interesting and funny. In this movie? Just spoiled and bitchy. Nothing else. Why should I root for Robin Williams -- whom I find exhausting, and to whom I could never, never be married -- to keep his family intact when Cheryl's character is such an ingrate, wholly unsupportive, and just downright snotty for no apparent reason. "Wah, wah, wah, I wanna go to Hawaaaaaaaaiiiiiii! But I don't want you to work so much, and I am not going to get a job, but screw you, Robin, for ruining our family vacation to save your job so I can sit on my butt all day eating bon-bons and our kids can go to college."

It's just insane; she has zero redeeming qualities, and the storyline (such that it was) would've worked just as well if her character had been more sympathetic.


2. Mark Ruffalo, Rumor Has It. (I know, I know. But we got it through Blockbuster Online, so it's not like we really paid for it, though!)
I really like Mark Ruffalo; I loved him in 13 Going on 30 and in Just Like Heaven. He was a little mopey at the outset in both of those, but he was layered and interesting and charming and ultimately totally lovable in both. But in Rumor Has It? He was just...there. He had no personality, no sense of humor, no fire, no charm, no appeal. Nothing. He was a good sport about hanging out with Jennifer Aniston's dad, and that's pretty much it. Ugh.

As creepy as it was, I had no reason not to support Jen's fleeing to Kevin Costner, who was charming and intriguing and successful and clearly into her, and no reason to feel like she'd made a good choice by crawling back to Mark in the end. Why? Because...he wasn't a total jerk, and he professed to love her? I'm sorry, but "I'm a nice guy who'll be faithful to you" doesn't cut it, in my book. Maybe if you're, like, 80 years old and you marry for companionship, fine, but for Jen's character? Settling. Ugh. Nice is necessary, I guess, but certainly not sufficient.


3. Doogal the Dog, Doogal. (I don't know; just go with it).
Doogle looked pretty promising, actually. It's an animated film with lots of the characters voiced by actors I really like: William H. Macy, Chevy Chase, Judi Dench, Jon Stewart as the evil dictator. How could they miss?

The premise is that this shaggy dog, Doogal, unwittingly unleashes some magic that traps his best friend, a little girl named Florence, in a carousel, and Doogal and his other friends set off on an adventure to undo the spell. Which is a fine story, but it was executed all wrong. Most kid-friendly animated movies throw in some subtle but smart puns and double-entendres to keep the grown-ups entertained; in Doogal, the puns were thrown in so obviously and heavy-handedly that it actually made me cringe. They just tried way too hard. And they didn't try at all to make Doogal a likeable character, or even a character at all. He's a doofy dog who likes candy and wants his friend to be saved, mostly because he can't bear to think of not having her around to play with. He's selfish; he's lazy; he's stupid; he's cowardly, and he doesn't really grow out of any of that throughout the movie. He's not a horrible dog, and they tell me he's well-intentioned, but he's not in any way remarkable. Again, why should I be rooting for you? And I didn't see enough of Florence to root for her; I only have this least-engaging-title-character-ever character telling me I should care. Not good enough. Not by a long shot.

I'm not saying that every character -- or even any character -- has to be perfectly likeable for me to enjoy a movie (I loved Match Point, for example). I love a good villian, and my favorite characters -- in any medium -- are those who are flawed and complicated and real, not all good or all bad. But there has to be something to them, and there has to be something about them that engages me, that makes me understand them or sympathize with them, that makes me cheer for them. So quit being so lazy, please, Hollywood.

Or maybe I just need to be more discriminating, because I really should've known better to expect much of any of these movies. I don't know, though; plot holes or mediocre writing or overacting, I can overlook; at least give me characters I can care about, a little, one way or the other.

Unexpected sympathy

I never thought I'd say this (maybe I'm still feeling generous because of the haircut?), but will y'all please give poor Britney Spears a break?

I know, I know: she's made really poor choices; she continues to make really poor choices; she should have to live with the consequences of making really poor choices so publicly. There's no excuse for marrying such a sleazy guy who apparently has super-sperm, and then acting all surprised and woe-is-me, The Victim, when you find yourself pregnant again so soon after the birth of your first kid, and I don't feel particularly sorry for you for that.

But really? All of this, "Britney's a bad mom!" stuff is really way over the top. I guess it's sort of a foregone conclusion that K-Fed's a bad dad, but really, when the kid fell out of the high chair while the nanny was watching him, no one blamed Kevin for it -- it was all on Britney. And yes, it's awful that she drove with the baby on her lap -- no excuse for it, and I don't buy that whole "I had to get away from the paparazzi" business. No excuse.

BUT. Now they're just after her for every. single. thing. Things that I bet happen to most moms. Kids are squirmy; once in a while, you're going to lose your grip and nearly drop them. Sometimes, kids fall. My sister once was walking up a flight of (carpeted, luckily) stairs, toting my niece along in her baby carrier. And my sister somehow lost her grip, and the baby tumbled all the way down the steps, head over heels. My sister felt terrible; she was beating herself up over it for weeks. She didn't drop the baby because she's a bad mom, and dropping her didn't make her a bad mom. It was an accident, and so was the whole most recent near-miss with Sean Preston, I'm sure, but because of the car seat thing, everyone just jumps on Britney.

I know she chose this life for herself, and part of me wishes that more parents were in the public eye so they'd take better care of their kids (Yeah, I'm talking about you, mom in the SUV at the gas station yesterday, talking on your cell phone with your five-year-old sitting in the front seat next to you. Props that he was at least buckled in, I guess, but he needs to be in the back, on a booster, sweetie). And I know it's really, really easy to pick on Britney. But c'mon; give her a break, and tackle someone or something a little more challenging. She has enough to deal with already, and you're making it worse.

On a pseudo-related note, don't even get me started on stupid Brandon Davis and his diatribe against Lindsay Lohan. He is just such an ass, and I would like for him to go away. The end.

Happy happy, joy joy

So often in life, it's the little things that make a huge difference.
Today, it's my haircut that has me feeling over the moon. I'd gone super-short a little more than a year ago, along with an unfortunate experiment with bangs, so I held off on cutting my hair for way, way too long, to the point where it was just a big, shaggy mess with split ends and no shape whatsoever. It made the jump from long and almost hip to unkempt and blah in a matter of days, and then it took me several weeks to get an appointment.

And then, today....bliss. Not too short, not too long: my Goldilocks cut. And it's made my whole day.

I just can't stop...

Wow, when I get back on the blogger bandwagon, I just can't shut myself up...

In random pseudo-celebrity news, Cara from The Real World Chicago got married a couple of weeks ago; good for her. She was a little bit of a wacko, and she had that whole gross hook-up with the Big Head Todd guy on the show, and she was incredibly needy and noddy, as I remember her. But there was also something about her that I kind of liked, and I'm glad that she seems happy and stable.

Tiny Bubbles

One of the most awesome TV shows, ever, was The Mole -- not the celebrity edition hosted by Ahmad Rashad, but the regular-people version hosted by my boyfriend Anderson Cooper, in his pre-360 days. Sigh.

Anyway, near the end of the second season, one contestant's task was to sit in a room overnight while the song Tiny Bubbles played over and over and over and over (it was a great episode -- see a recap here). It was great to watch, but I don't think I'd have made it through the night if I'd been locked in that room.

At dinner the other night, at the inn in Virginia, the Smelmooo and I had our very own Tiny Bubbles experience, only with a different song that we think is Nat King Cole's Let's Fall in Love. It was playing when we sat down to dinner; it was playing during the salad course; it was playing during the main course. Finally, the guy at the table next to us asked the waitress if perhaps the CD player was mistakenly on "repeat," because we'd been hearing the same song for thirty minutes.

And, indeed, it was a mistake, and quickly resolved once someone spoke up, but all of us had just been wondering if perhaps the innkeeper really liked that song, or if it was "the song" of one of the couples in the dining room, and didn't want to be the one to bring it up. I wonder whether we actually were subjects in some sort of psychological experiment. I'll keep my eyes peeled for that one: "Yuppie vacationers and their willingness to rock the boat," I imagine the journal article will be titled.

Preventive services

My dentist, for whom I'd searched so long, up and moved to Florida to pursue orthodontia, so I figured I'd just go another ten years without an appointment. But the Smelmooo took matters into his own hands, and scheduled us both for check-ups last week with the guy who took over our old dentist's practice.

The Smelmooo went first, and on his way out of the chair, he promised me I'd like the new guy, in part because he's a big nerd, which is something I always appreciate. The Smelmooo told me to "check out his key ring," which did look suspiciously like the dentist moonlights as a high school janitor, but live and let live, I say.

I did like the new dentist: he praised my "enviable smile," gave me props for flossing (although in a little bit of back-handed way: "It looks like you even manage to floss once in a while," which is actually true -- I'm not so good about doing it every day), and advised me not to use tartar-control toothpaste, ever. I like rules, especially absolutes, so this was music to my ears. And he didn't make me get x-rays. So yay, New Dentist!

New Dentist also, apropos of nothing, told me that in all his years of seeing patients, the one thing he's learned is that the most important thing is not to take your loved ones for granted. I don't know about you, but when I'm in the chair with all those tools in my mouth, I'm not particularly inclined to talk about my personal relationships at any great length the way one might with a hairdresser, or, you know, a licensed therapist. Maybe it's primarly the patients who get sedated? I don't know; I could barely answer that yes, I had braces as a kid, never mind get into, "Oh, this relationship dissolved because I didn't feel appreciated."

But New Dentist has, apparently, heard it all, and he made it very clear that, whether it's with a spouse, a parent, a child or a friend, the most important thing is to make a conscious choice, every day, not to take that person or that relationship for granted.

And even though it was pretty random ("out of thin blue air," as I just told Minnams -- my brain is still partly on vacation), and an odd thing to hear from the dentist, it's sound advice. So I'm being, again, a perfect little patient, and passing it along.

An uncommon lack of good sense

The Smelmooo and I just returned from a lovely long weekend away. We first went to Baltimore, then headed down to Shenandoah, where we stayed at a little inn, ate amazing food, did some hiking, and went a drive-in movie theater (my first ever!). It was absolute heaven, just what we both needed to get our heads away from work, to spend some time together and to relax.

Thursday night, after a day at the aquarium and dinner on the inner harbor (where one of the boats was hosting a high school prom; we saw a bunch of couples boarding, all smiles, not a hair out of place, and I wondered how many of the girls would be in tears by the end of the night, and whether any of the kids would get kicked out for drinking, but at the point we saw it, the night was still filled with fairy-tale magic), we settled into our hotel room to drink wine, play poker and half-watch TV.

When ER came on, we gave it our full attention, even though we both mostly don't like the show anymore. But every once in a while, it's really good, and we both get hooked again, although I'm still not sure I can ever forgive them for killing off Gallant (on a related note, I hear they killed Mischa Barton's character off on The O.C., and although I've never watched the show, I give them mad props for that).

And ER was awesome, mostly in a good way, but also in a "Crap; I can't believe they ended it that way and we have to wait all summer with this knot in our stomachs" kind of way. But at one point, I remarked to the Smelmooo that, if I were ever held at gunpoint, or kidnapped, or experienced anything that required me to think on my feet to survive, I'd be dead, dead, dead. I read those stories about the women who persuade their attackers not to rape them, or help their would-be killers find God (although I think that woman was on crystal meth or something), or send smoke signals telepathically to buy themselves time, and I think, "No way would I ever think to do that. In fact, I'd do the exact opposite."

I really think that I have no survival skills, no appropriate instincts or common sense or anything of that nature to keep me safe or even alive if threatened. I may be so ill-equipped in this department that I'll win a Darwin Award when I die, because I decided to tell the burglar to shove it up his ass, instead of cooperating.

Anyway, it was just an offhand comment I made on Thursday, but yesterday, when we were hiking on Skyline Drive, I realized it might come true sooner than I thought. We'd hiked about two-thirds of our 3-ish mile hike when I heard something probably a hundred yards away; I looked up and saw what I still swear was a bear cub.

At which point, instead of staying still and quiet as one should upon encountering a bear, I said, very loudly, pointing and waving, "HOLY CRAP! IS THAT A BEAR?!" The Smelmooo, of course, quietly shushed me and we continued walking as the bear scampered away, and I mumbled, "Huh. So, I guess that's probably not what you're supposed to do when you think you see a bear, is it?"

We didn't see him again, but for the whole rest of our hike, every chipmunk made me jump; every wet tree stump was a vicious animal ready to attack. I'm not usually so wimpy -- no, really, I'm not -- but this just scared the crap out of me, and made me realize that for all of my book smarts, I'm just not that bright.

To Whom it May Concern

Dear Chatty-McChatty-Pants on NJ Transit:

I don't care how smart you think you are and how many names you drop. I don't care how much money you make, or how you manage to keep from being materialistic despite your success, or about the downfall of civilization, or how you're too good to watch TV. I just want to get home after a long, long, long day.

Kindly shut your pie hole.

Shhhhhh,
Tangent Woman

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Dear Other Guy on NJ Transit who Offered me a Tissue Following my Allergy Attack,

Bless YOU. Everyone should be so kind and sane on public transportation.

Gratefully,
Tangent Woman

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Hot & Crusty:

I would never, never have patronized an establishment with such a yucky name were it not for your promise of chocolate chip muffins -- the only place in Penn Station who seemed to have them. "Seemed," because five mini-morsels on the top of a wheat muffin does NOT equate to a chocolate-chip muffin. Boo to you.

Sincerely,
Disappointed and famished

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Dear Lindsay Lohan:

You were so adorable and innocent in The Parent Trap. I loved you in Mean Girls, and I didn't even altogether hate Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen. You are a good actress, and I'm glad you're not so emaciated, and I'm still fairly certain I don't believe my former co-worker who told me she saw a crack pipe in the bag you left behind at a club.

But I hate, hate, hate those leggings you've been wearing, and I wish you'd put them away. But worse than the leggings, I think, was your failure to remove those little loopy straps from your dress -- the ones intended to hold the dress up on the hanger in the store, the ones you're supposed to snip off before you wear it -- for your segment on the Ellen DeGeneres show. It looked sloppy and silly and not at all becoming a movie star, and I wonder if someone got fired right after she sat there in the RiffRaff Room, biting her lip, not even seeing that you were about to do push-ups in a dress or hearing that Ellen was ragging on you for your promiscuity and wildness, but just staring at those little satin straps hanging from your armpits, willing them to disintegrate.

I know I did.

Love and scissors,
Tangent Woman

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Dear M and B,

Congrats on your engagement! You're a great couple and I'm so happy for you.
I hope I'm on the A list!

Love,
Tangent

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear J and B,

Congratulations on your latest addition! Aidan is adorable, but I cannot believe that my Size-2-on-a-fat-day friend just delivered a nearly 10-pound baby. B, you'd better have gotten her a heck of a Mother's Day gift.

Love you guys and can't wait to meet the littlest one (who appears in the photo to be nearly as big as his two-year-old sister!).

Love and hugs,
Tangent

I am grateful for a million things

Chief among them this morning: battery back-up in the Smelmooo's alarm clock.

A hairy week of travel, illness and related tomfoolery has kept me from writing, but I'll be back this weekend with updates for those of you who are feeling neglected...

A hole....a-hole!

A few months ago on The Soup, the hilarious Joel McHale made a joke about some celebrity (I'm thinking K-Fed, probably, although I don't remember for sure) wherein he (Joel) pointed to a round opening in some material and said, "A hole," and then pointed for comparison to a picture of the celebrity, saying, "A-hole!"

Which I'm betting does not translate so well to a blog entry, but it was hilarious when Joel did it; it's all in the delivery. Anyway, the Smelmooo and I have co-opted this bit and use it all the time.

Yesterday, we spent much of the afternoon with HYB and her hubby at the Shad Fest in Lambertville, which kind of sounded more fun than it was, I think, and we were hot and I was feeling claustrophobic, so we hit the road and met up at a big park and sat in the shady picnic area, which was surprisingly empty for a beautiful Sunday afternoon. We had brought a deck of cards, and ultimately settled on playing Asshole (A-hole!), the much-beloved drinking game. We weren't actually drinking, but we quickly figured out that Asshole is more fun without the drinking than Texas Hold 'Em is without the betting, so Asshole it was.

I played entirely too much of this game in college, and during my semester abroad, and the Smelmooo and I played it a few times with friends at the beach, but I hadn't played in a couple of years, I don't think. It's amazing how quickly it comes back.

Basically, the idea is that you deal out all the cards, and the objective is to be the first to get rid of all your cards by throwing out successively higher cards until no one else in the game can beat your card. So, three of clubs leads, and the next person has to put out a three or higher (and if it's a three, the next player's turn gets skipped), until no one else can go. Twos are the trump card; they immediately clear whatever's on the table. Once you've won a hand, you can lead with pairs or trips or quads. If you're skipped, either because you can't beat the card(s) on the table or because the two people before you each put down the same card, you have to drink. First person to get rid of all his/her cards becomes the President; last person left becomes the Asshole.

The Asshole is responsible for shuffling, dealing and clearing. Sometimes, the Asshole has to wear a silly hat. But, perhaps most importantly, he/she has to give the President his/her two highest cards -- in exchange for the Prez's two lowest cards -- at the start of each round (often, the VP and the Vice Asshole exchange one card), which makes it harder for the Asshole to move up to a better position.

The President is responsible for making whatever rules he/she deems appropriate, and enforcing them with a stern, "DRINK!" if players violate those rules. For example, many Presidents will enforce a rule that players cannot look at their cards until all cards are dealt and the President has picked up her/his hand. Sometimes, the President just commands players to drink if they're playing too well, or if they look at her funny, If there are duplicate cards on the table and the Prez gets skipped, s/he may order the two players before her to drink.

The Smelmooo insisted at the start of yesterday's game that he's a "benevolent dictator" whenever he's president, although I'm not altogether sure that I buy that. And I think that part of the reason I want so much to be President is simply because some people do go on such power trips when they're President, and it's more that I'd rather not have to deal with them than that I want to be President myself.

Either way, though, I know that I am in fact the opposite of a benevolent dictator if I'm playing with people I don't like, and even sometimes if I do like them. Ironic, eh, that when I'm the President, I'm really an Asshole?

When I spent a semester in England, we played Asshole all the time, each of us with a two-liter bottle of the cider they sold alongside the soda at the grocery store in town. And one time when I was president, I told this girl I absolutely hated that she had to drink for some reason or another, and she refused, so I told her she couldn't play anymore (if you're not gonna follow the rules, you can't play!), and she started to CRY, and she threatened to tell her dad -- who knew my dad -- that I was mean and forced her to drink and was a horrible person.

Which maybe I was. I really do start practicing my petty tyranny, I think, when I have a few drinks in me. I did have a nice reign as Prez yesterday, and I think I was fairly nice about it, although, again, no drinking involved, and with people I really like, so no need to be a jerk.

I think I was really repressed in college, and everything I held in just came tumbling out of me unchecked when I drank -- that's probably part of the reason I did drink, so I could get it out there and have some cover. My college friend Sarah always saw through that phenomenon (not so much with me, because I didn't have any beef with Sarah; my mantra with her when I was drunk was, "You're Sarah Smith, and you're AWESOME," for whatever reason), and she regularly noted that a drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts.

I'm still a little repressed, and I'd probably have a whole lot to say if I got trashed and started playing drinking games at my office holiday party, but for the most part, I'm happy to be beyond that, to be comfortable with who I am and with my friends. Which is not to say I'm above throwing several cocktails back or acting like an idiot with my friends, but there's a different, less desperate vibe to it these days.

I think I'm fixated on this in part because I'm reading Pledged at Minnams's recommendation, following reading Prep, which reminded me more of my college experience than my high school days. And I think it was a really trying, stressful, painful time, and I'm glad to have it behind me, and that I'm somewhat less of an asshole today than I was back then.