On Monday evening, exactly twenty-four hours after I left for my semi-formal, my fourteen-year-old sister called me from the car that my seventeen-year-old brother was driving. As my brother feigned indifference, yet listened intently, I began to summarize how the date went.
My siblings and I are a little closer than the conventional triumvirate. Though it is true we’ve freestyled for friends at the dinner table and we school anyone that dares to step on the dance floor, we’ve also made drug store runs together to pick up tampons, condoms, and pills for each of us, and if that isn’t “close” enough for you, then I should also note that it was my brother who noticed and fought for them to give me Yasmin and not generic. My sister has crafted booty call text messages for my brother. I have selected “sexy” bras before my sister’s dances. Most importantly, we each have separate but equal veto powers when it comes to the facebook evaluation of any potential significant other. (Guess whose selections are typically the most vetoed.)
As is tradition in the Adelson household, at around 3 o’clock in the afternoon, Thanksgiving Thursday, my mother kicked everyone out of our house except the one other adult who could turn on an oven (I bounced). This became standard back in 1995 when my siblings were still routinely sent to the principal for their unreliable exuberance and for using their very hard heads as weapons, and later, when my young cousins developed a knack for annual stitches and/or throw up: we tried to avoid these mishaps by going to the movies. This year’s pick? Bolt.
Perhaps I was delirious from the horrible two weeks we all have ahead of us, or maybe I was hungry; it could just as easily be that I’m a closeted six-year-old, but I laughed as hard at Bolt as I did at Forgetting Sarah Marshall, which I viewed in theaters twice, once drunk, then again sober to see if it was in fact as funny as I remembered it (it is, so see it if you haven’t).
Since Thursday, I have spent approximately 32 hours in Van Pelt. My breaks were for meals, sleeping, and meetings. Literally. As I read through my text books, made flashcards, wrote two papers, and prepared for presentations that should take me through the Monday after Thanksgiving, I acquired two tics: the instinctive looking up expectantly as I catch any tall boy in my peripheral vision, and–the more embarrassing one–impulsively texting boys from home in anticipation of a weekend of gluttony.
It started innocently with the love of my life from middle school. We have, for years, been in limbo with one another; one single, the other seeing someone, then it switches. Not since my bat mitzvah have I slow-danced with someone and really meant it. This text was an investment, on all accounts, since he’s in his first year at Goldman, and I am due to move to New York come June. Of course, being an investment big shot himself means he’ll be home for 20 hours. That led me to the high school friend with benefits.
It recently dawned on me that in the past year, every hook-up I’ve had has gone one of two ways: I’m into it, or he’s into it.
The “I’m into it” situation is pretty self-explanatory, and I’m sure most of you have been there at least once (if not, I hate you). From our end, it seems to go extremely well, until, for reasons unbeknownst to us, we’re dropped. I’ve been lucky enough to watch these d-bags become temporarily ugly post-break-up: whether weight gain, face bloat, or acne regression, it’s fabulous. Karma’s a bitch, boys.
Out of the blue one day, though, I experienced the “he’s into it” scenario for the first time–and then repeatedly. When he’s into it, it’s so terrible that you peace out ASAP, but your escape is immediately followed by a bombardment of text messages for cuddling, movie watching, or just random attempts to be cute or endearing that flat out fail. Just the thought of the initial interaction brings on a visceral reaction, and you blame tequila, even if you were sober.
On Homecoming Saturday I flirted with the full spectrum of past, present and future. First, I ran into a recent graduate with whom I used to have an infatuation; I later high-fived a guy from class at the ’Pelt, then, that evening rekindled my cougar instincts as I awkwardly introduced myself to the freshman with the voice of an angel, who had read my blog along with all of the Penn Six list serve recipients. Great job Saturday, guys.
My Homecoming really was full of shoulda…woulda…coulda sentiments, but it was with the additional overwhelming festivities of the weekend that I came to the unnerving realization that despite the fact that I have the libido of a 16-year-old boy, I do not want a single guy to step foot in my bedroom this year.
I’ve had the same room off campus since my sophomore year. It’s quiet, and the floor space is spectacular. However, about a week before moving into the place back in 2006, my mom and I went to Sleepy’s. When I settled on the perfect mattress, jumping up and down with the salesman who was allegedly as ecstatic as I was, my mom broke the moment as she said, “great–we’ll take it in a twin.”
Last week I wrote about my Cougar aspirations. In a break that epitomizes my short attention span, I must reveal that I have refocused my desires specifically toward the Wild Cats. Yes, Troy Bolton’s basketball team in the epic trilogy obsession of myself and many, many, many 9-year-olds, High School Musical.
Now, I watched the first two TV movies passively, quietly fantasizing about singing “Breaking Free” with a desired boy publicly (like, fling?), yielding the embarrassing iTunes purchase of “Breaking Free: the karaoke version.” But something truly ignited in me as I watched the conclusion–but first theatrical release–to the high school days of those crazy Cats.
I viewed this cinematic masterpiece Friday afternoon–opening day, if you will–with a housemate. We were easily the oldest people in the theater without children. We laughed, (she doesn’t know it, but I) cried (four times), and got turned on during a fantastical dance number, “The Boys are Back,” featuring Zac Efron and my future third husband and recent recipient of a bangin’-post-puberty body, Corbin Bleu.
When I was in high school, I dated a younger guy off and on for a couple of years. For the most part, driving him everywhere and calling his mom for permission to go to the movies didn’t get to me, until one day when we were fooling around watching TV. Suddenly, on came the Pokemon theme song. Now, I would not be caught dead watching that show–even to this day, I much prefer quality old school Nicktoons to any anime bullshit (Sorry, D)–so to say it was alarming when my boyfriend squealed with excitement, “oh my god I looooove Pokemon. You’re my Pikachu!,” would be an understatement. When we officially broke up and I hooked up with my first college guy (a senior with a record deal) three days later, I concluded that never again would I rob the cradle. Until now.
For those of you who don’t spend 100% of your internet time on facebook and reading celebrity gossip, political and shopping blogs like me (and I’m kickass), I would like to inform you that the recent Ivy-Graduates-in-San-Fransisco-Constituency, also known as “Team Google” have created a new feature to prevent you from writing drunk emails.
Mail Goggles, as they are called, note a frequency in typos and interrupt your rant to an ex with math equations. If you are competent enough to solve said problems, you may continue your well-wishing of the syph and herpes.
Now, this idea could work if your emails looks like this: djklfasdlkfjaklghah. While this may be beneficial to some, I have to ask: how many of you actually drunk email?
We missed this week’s episode of Gossip Girl (do you have it on your TiVo? Call us!), but blogger Carlin Adelson watched it, and she has a few bones to pick. Herewith, a thesis on GG’s recent suckitude.
10. Josh Schwartz can’t carry a storyline–-or keep the suspense–-for two episodes. And I take Adderall.
9. The only one we’ve seen topless this season is the scrawny, whiny one. No distinction necessary.
8. The writing isn’t as sharp, thus relying on the cast’s physical humor.
7. There isn’t any.
6. Maybe it was their summer off, but the vast majority of the cast can’t act.
5. With Kati gone, Isabel looks racially imbalanced.
4. The clothes, though still adorable, can be found on shopbop.com and Intermixonline–bad for stylists’ reputation, great for us (plus Vanessa, the poor one, was wearing a Marc by Marc top at the coffee shop where she works instead of going to high school–-explain?!)
In this very special blog post, Columnist Carlin is back to riff on contraception, hormones, and every college girl’s gripping fear of getting preggo.
For the last four years, I have happily been taking the same birth control pill. In the beginning it scared me (as it would any seventeen-year-old) to be putting a hormone into my body, but as I myself was a whoremone, my mother and gyno’s laws were laid down. Ever since I have had zero breakouts, no one can predict when it’s coming since I don’t get cyclically bitchy, and every four Tuesdays at 4:00 pm, I excuse myself, and know I’ll be sexually frustrated for three-and-a-half days.
This morning, for this first time since my pill in July, 2004 in Almagro, Spain, something extraordinary happened: tired from the night before, I popped open my packet to see my “Saturday” ricochet straight into a large heap of trash (primarily old Metro coffee cups and myriad Band-Aids I wear as socks while in heels). I began to panic. Though I am not, nor have I ever been, obsessive compulsive, I have just enough attention span to have remembered every morning for over four years to take the fucking thing, and have been ecstatic to have had only one pregnancy scare, which was silly since I hadn’t actually had sex in three months.
Remember our sassy columnist Carlin? She’s back to narrate a night at Smoke’s…through Gossip Girl’s eyes.
Just another Thursday at Smoke's
Last week I wrote about the in-class crush. For the sake of contrast I wanted to chronicle for you, my dear readers (i.e., my housemates and lineage), a recent night at Smoke’s so you can see that we Penn students are not unlike those we love to watch. As I am not an anonymous writer, all names have been changed. Consider me your Serena Van der Woodsen du jour. Until Monday night, that is. Boker tov, my little rodents!
Spotted: J, thirsty as usual and reminiscing at Smoke’s, eyeing former fling Carlin. Could it be a rekindling of flames? Or has C left him in the dust of his alum ashes?
It seems the two are okay as they say hello. Doesn’t J have a girlfriend? Didn’t C move on a week later? C sees her friends have arrived, drinks in hand, swaying to Rihanna. Better offer, C? I think so.
Please say hello to UTB contributor Carlin Adelson, who writes in to muse on crushes, the end of summer and the ongoing battle between her id and her libido.
I have acquired over the past two weeks in class my first crush of the semester. Unlike the out-at-Smoke’s crush, girls and boys alike have the opportunity to actually hear the person of interest in a (sometimes questionably) lucid state as they intellectually discuss subject matters during recitation, work on group presentations, and awkwardly bump knees in lecture while dropping a pen even though he or she is a part of the 90% who use a Macbook.
Crushes are fun at the beginning of the year–particularly senior year, as in my case–since everything still seems new and fresh. It’s still warm out, so girls can wear their jorts sans Uggs, guys can run topless without nipple-i-tus, and both sexes are appreciative of the other, tan lines and all. Additionally, it’s comforting to see some new faces since your circle hasn’t grown in the last three years. Most importantly, these novel crushes are fun since it’s an easy, generally safe distraction.
On Monday evening, exactly twenty-four hours after I left for my semi-formal, my fourteen-year-old sister called me from the car that my seventeen-year-old brother was driving. As my brother feigned indifference, yet listened intently, I began to summarize how the date went.
As is tradition in the Adelson household, at around 3 o’clock in the afternoon, Thanksgiving Thursday, my mother kicked everyone out of our house except the one other adult who could turn on an oven (I bounced). This became standard back in 1995 when my siblings were still routinely sent to the principal for their unreliable exuberance and for using their very hard heads as weapons, and later, when my young cousins developed a knack for annual stitches and/or throw up: we tried to avoid these mishaps by going to the movies. This year’s pick? Bolt.
Since Thursday, I have spent approximately 32 hours in Van Pelt. My breaks were for meals, sleeping, and meetings. Literally. As I read through my text books, made flashcards, wrote two papers, and prepared for presentations that should take me through the Monday after Thanksgiving, I acquired two tics: the instinctive looking up expectantly as I catch any tall boy in my peripheral vision, and–the more embarrassing one–impulsively texting boys from home in anticipation of a weekend of gluttony.
It recently dawned on me that in the past year, every hook-up I’ve had has gone one of two ways: I’m into it, or he’s into it.
On Homecoming Saturday I flirted with the full spectrum of past, present and future. First, I ran into a recent graduate with whom I used to have an infatuation; I later high-fived a guy from class at the ’Pelt, then, that evening rekindled my 
10. Josh Schwartz can’t carry a storyline–-or keep the suspense–-for two episodes. And I take Adderall.
For the last four years, I have happily been taking the same birth control pill. In the beginning it scared me (as it would any seventeen-year-old) to be putting a hormone into my body, but as I myself was a whoremone, my mother and gyno’s laws were laid down. Ever since I have had zero breakouts, no one can predict when it’s coming since I don’t get cyclically bitchy, and every four Tuesdays at 4:00 pm, I excuse myself, and know I’ll be sexually frustrated for three-and-a-half days.
