"That's cutting your nose to spite your face."

Hi. Can we talk?


I'm turning twenty-one soon, and I'm having a bit of an early twenties existential who-am-I-does-my-life-matter-crisis.




I'm just a little worried about my future.


I seem to be taking turning twenty-one like most women take turning fifty. I had a motherfucking hot flash today. I am not even kidding.



The intense sweating got so bad, I finally just had to own up to it.



Yep. That stinky, wet girl is me!



Oh well, I am looking forward to the future! A future where Frangelicca is legal for me!




Who am I kidding? I'm probably gonna sit home and get my book on.



But lord knows, I should take my shirt's advice. Because sometimes you should just say, "what the fuck."


P.S. Brian made this for me and it is amazing.

"I think I hurt my sweet tooth."

All my life, all 20.11 ¾ years of it, all I’ve wanted to be is older. In pre-school I was pretending my cubby was a locker. In first grade I made my own paper “schedule”, being sure to block out when we had “sustained silent reading”, mathematics, social studies, lunch, and free time. In high school I day dreamed in English class about being somewhere far away and Ivy League-y where I could wear plaid sweaters and loafers every day un-ironically, and now in college I fantasize about already being a famous author and no where near any place that revolves around a Greek system and fancy Latin words like “Magna cum Laude” that sound kinda dirty and ultimately get turned into an innuendo by some (fat and hairy) frat asshole alluding to wanting to get into my pants.

Don’t get me wrong, college is fun(ish). There are a few aspects of college life I wouldn’t trade for all the Miller Light in the world: the one class a day option, all the free time, the pretentious label that comes with my soon-to-be English degree, that whole the world is my oyster thing. That stuff, as my friend Robyn would say, is freakin’ rad. But there are a few things I miss about pre-college life.

“Want to go grab coffee?” I ask a friend of mine who has already been twenty-one for a few months now.
“Uh,” he hesitates. “Man, I wish you were old enough to go to a bar or something. I barely even drink coffee anymore. I haven’t had coffee since like Freshman year of college.”
“What? Are you Mormon now or something?” I ask.
“No,” he shrugs, “I just go to bars now instead of Starbucks to pick up girls.”

What happened to trying to find the shitty house-party that resulted in an endless drive, a fabulous soundtrack, and an epic adventure of some sort nearly every time? What happened to just seeing a movie with a friend without having to go get drunk afterward? I would like to go back to a time where I wasn’t seen as a loser just because I was home in time to see the new Saturday Night Live. It makes me kind of miss the days when sitting at home or at a Starbucks drinking coffee all night and just talking was fine.

Almost.

Because, if that were totally true, I guess I’d be saying that I miss high school, and let me assure you that that is most certainly a false statement.

When I was in high school, which seems like forever ago already, I was seriously confused about what kind of person I was. I would like to say that I always spoke with this Juno McGuff lilt and my hair always looked grand, but I was a hot mess who lifted lines from Scrubs back before the Zach Braff backlash and no matter how I threw myself at guys, just couldn’t seem to get any of the straight ones to date me. It probably had something to do with this little Jerry McGuire-esque manifesto I printed in our school newspaper about how I was going to “Jessica Simpson my way through high school” and keep my virginity. And for four years I had to wonder why I, self-proclaimed professional virgin, couldn’t seem to get a date from a guy who wasn’t in the closet.

Gee. I wonder.

The lack of straight guys professing their love to me convinced me I should secure a gay escort to my prom. From what I recall, my date only went with me because I wore a designer dress that I am pretty sure he wanted to try on, but regardless, I had fun, and I think he did, too. We did all the things regular prom dates do, except for that whole American Pie getting laid thing. But what he lacked in straight-boy love for me he made up for in dancing ability. Basically, we rocked it on the makeshift dance floor that Student Government set up on the dirt at the zoo where our prom was held. Also, my hair looked fantastic, and that’s all that really matters.

Prom seemed like a distant memory, though, one I’d pleasantly surrendered to my subconscious, never to recall again, until when at Safeway one early Saturday morning, the overly pierced, early-twenties, and overweight cashier asked me if I was excited for Prom.
I slid my debit card in the reader to pay for my Cheerios, Elle, and gum. I chew gum like Paulie Bleeker eats Tic-Tacs. “Pardon?” I ask.
“For prom,” he repeats. “You excited?”
“I’m almost twenty-one,” I answer.
The cashier squints at me, “You don’t look a day over sixteen.”

I suppose I should have been pleased, happy to have young features since I already scrutinize myself in front of the mirror looking for crows feet and laugh lines and other things I want Botoxed, but it just brought up all of the mixed feelings I have about turning twenty-one.

It’s just that I’m just getting worried. I’m turning twenty-one soon. Really soon. Like in less than a week soon, and this shit is on. This is the real deal you know? Screw Bat mitzvahs. Barack Obama Adoni, I am Twenty-one. And that’s the day I become a woman. Its the day my acne becomes "adult acne", the day my parents stop getting a tax refund for me, the day my insurance is lowered. It’s the age when random hook-ups should not just be an odd occurrence, they should be the norm, or at least this is what MTV tells me. Oh yeah, all this plus, the added bonus of being able to get my drink on legally. Not that I will. I've jokingly told everyone that my birthday will have the theme of "sobriety" because, chances are, even with my sparkling new adult status I will probably still be hanging out at home watching the TiVo and drinking Vitamin Water instead of going out on the town.

“Come hang out with some friends and me on my birthday!” I invite my friend David. “You’ll get to see me totally fucking sober at a classy restaurant.”
“Oh,” he snorts, “That’ll be a nice change. Hey, maybe one day do you want to act your age?”
“Maybe,” I reply. But let’s be honest, probably not.

"Its like Switzerland if Switzerland was cheaply made out of particle board."

“She’s buff,” Rich, -or maybe he said Mitch?- notes, pointing to my friend Robyn who is helping her boyfriend, Brian, load up the back of his Toyota truck with band equipment after his concert for his (good) band The Twilight Showdown. I have helped a little by picking up a few mats and looking like a groupie. I had already told Brian that I was wearing white and I was a girl so therefore unable to help. Plus, I’m not his girlfriend, Robyn is. Helping is her job, not mine.

“Yeah, well, she works out a lot,” I lie to Rich(Mitch?). “Plus, those two,” I point to Robyn and Brian who sneak a kiss in between equipment loads, “are so into S&M its ridiculous.”
Brian and Robyn are about as into S&M as Mickey and Minnie Mouse are, by the way. The notion itself is absurd, and Rich can tell I am clearly joking.
“Oh yeah?” he laughs as Robyn lugs a heavy cymbal into the bed of the truck. My arms ache just looking at her.
“Yes,” I say, “And their safe-word is couch.” In actuality, 'couch' is my go-to safe-word; the one I decided I would use if I ever needed it.
“That must make things awkward when she comes over.”
“It does,” I nod, “I say, ‘Robyn, go ahead, make yourself at home! Take a seat on the… co-sofa…’ I try never to say couch.”
“Reminds her too much of the good times?” Mitch asks.
“Yeah,” I sigh, “And then I lose her. She goes off into her own little world.”
“And then it is dark,” he says and I am practically giddy that he’s quoting Dennis Hopper from Blue Velvet. We’re silent a moment after that.

“I can’t believe we just had an entire conversation about Brian and Robyn dabbling in S&M,” I say.
Rich nods, “It’s kind of a strange first conversation to have, I’ll admit.”
“It’s kind of my fault,” I say.
“I don’t even know your name. I’m Rich (Mitch?) by the way,” he tells me and extends his hand. I notice now for the first time that he looks like E from Entourage. I decide this is fine with me.

“I’m Stephanie,” I extend my hand as well and we shake. Instantly I want hand sanitizer. Not because he’s dirty, but because I have OCD. I dig around in my bag for it, but then realize that’d probably offend him, since he doesn’t know me and how crazy I am. I pull out lip balm instead, like I had been looking for it the entire time. Oh, here this is! In the darkness, outside of The Dumpiest Club in Tempe, Mitch can’t tell I have just reapplied my lip gloss and that my lips aren’t really chapped at all. “So you know Brian?” I question.
“Uh, no, I don’t, but I know Jesse, his band's drummer,” Rich says. “I’m actually Jesse’s drum instructor, well, no, well, I teach the kids he teaches at the high school, drums."
“Oh!” I say, “You’re a music teacher?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he nods.
“That’s really awesome!” I say, and I mean it. I am so over the moon with the whole teacher thing because it means he actually went to school or goes to school and thinks that getting an education is important. It means when we have babies, our kids will be smart and musically talented. “I always wanted to play the drums,” I say wistfully, "But my mom said I had to play the flute.”
Mitch laughs, “If I had to guess what instrument you played, I’d guess flute.”
I fake offense, “Ugh, God, really?” I had always associated flautists to be a sort of WASP-y, personality-free kind of girl, but I could never get the fingerings down, much less any sound to come out of the instrument, so I never really thought of myself as a flute player at all.
“Yeah," He gives me a sly grin, "I’m really good at being able to tell what instrument people play, if any at all.”
“I played another, too,” I say. “Three points if you can guess it.”
“Did you stick to woodwinds or…?”
“I can’t tell you! That’s cheating!” I explain.
Rich thinks for a moment, “French horn?”
“Jesus, seriously?” This time I really am offended. All the French horns I knew were fat girls who didn’t even have a pretty face. “I look like French horn to you?”
Mitch looks sort of like I just slapped him, “I don’t know? A lot of flautists stick to the wind instruments!” He justifies his answer.
“Violin,” I correct him.
He looks defeated, “Ugh, yeah, I should have seen that. Every little girl plays the violin.”
“Played," I correct him. "And, I played pretty badly, if that makes you feel better?” I offer. “I was the only kid in my elementary school orchestra who didn’t get a solo at the winter concert. Also, I was the only non-Asian.” My phone vibrates then, indicating a text message, and I jump about ninety feet in the air. I’ve had a cell phone nearly eight years now, but I will never get used to the feeling of my ass vibrating. I fish it out and flip it open to the big screen to see the message. “Hey!" It reads, "Didn’t want 2 cockblock U or NEthing, but Brian’s 'rents asked me to grab a beer w/ them, but I’ll stay here with U, k?” The text is from Robyn who is standing about a yard away from me, talking to Brian and Rich can read it clearly from where he’s standing by my side. I laugh uncomfortably, my specialty, while Mitch shifts from one foot to the other.
“Cockblock?” he asks quietly.
“Robyn,” I shout out to her, “Its only cockblocking if you’re stealing the guy from me.”
“You’re not cockblocking! You’re not cockblocking!” Rich says over me.
Robyn saunters over to us, “Oh. I just. Oh, I. Hmm. I didn’t know, you guys looked like you were having some good conversation so I just didn’t want to interrupt?”
“We did have some decent banter going back and forth. It was reminiscent of the Algonquin round table discussions,” I say.
“The what? OK,” Robyn says, not really interested in having me go into further detail on a reference she didn’t care to understand.
“Hey, Robyn?” I ask.
“Yeah?” her eyebrows rise.
I whisper softly, “Couch.”

"No, thank you."

Andrea is afraid of driving so I find it ironic that she only fools around with her current sort-of boyfriend in the backseat of his Honda Civic.
"It was actually, OK," she says to me at coffee one day. "I kept trying to talk to him in a sexy voice, but I hate my voice, I think its high pitched," She confesses. "I sound like I was sexually abused."
"You do not," I tell her. "You're insane. Your voice is just fine. It isn't child-like at all, but the car, really? Is this high school?"
She flips her hair back, "I don't mind it. When I was twelve, and saw Titanic, I said to myself, I hope my boyfriend and I have hot, unmarried sex in the backseat of a car like Jack and Rose. Now my wish has come true!" She sits back in her chair, pleased with herself.
I throw up my hands in mock celebration, "Yay, James Cameron for promoting pre-marital sex!"
Andrea nods, "Taught me everything I needed to know."

Like most young girls growing up in the mid-nineties, I too loved James Cameron’s 1997 shit-fest called, Titanic. At the time, I didn’t realize how bad the dialog was or how inaccurate some of the history was because I was too busy wishing I were Kate Winslet and loving Leonardo DiCaprio. I am not afraid to say that yes, I had quite a few Titanic posters hanging in my room and yes, I kissed them all goodnight before I plopped into bed.

It wasn’t until recently, inclined by the fact that I had just seen the Titanic artifact exhibit at Arizona’s Science Museum, that I revisited this movie. I hadn’t seen it since I was about thirteen and a huge part of me really looked forward to the “king of the world” line and Victor Garber (I’ve since moved on from Leonardo) playing Mr. Andrews, the ship’s designer who was Irish in real life, but, whatever!

Titanic, with the tagline: “a woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets” (This written by a man who left his wife for a woman playing a supporting role in the movie), brought together the two things I loved most in life: movies and history. Or, to be more specific, movies and really pretty costumes.

Being on the waning side of my tween years, the fact that DiCaprio was in this film was only the icing on the cake. When I first saw the movie, I thought the sex scene, that takes place in the car that’s in cargo storage, was both original and scandalous. How was I supposed to know it was almost a shot by shot recreation of a scene from the 1942 Bette Davis film Now, Voyager? At the time, I couldn’t even tell you the difference between Bette Davis and Betty Rubble.

I saw Titanic about eight times in theatres that I can remember. That’s approximately forty-eight dollars wasted (not counting the un-kosher gummi bears and drink I had to have, so tack on an extra ten to that) and 1,512 minutes I could have been doing something else with my life. Like, watching something historically accurate. Although, somewhere around the sixth viewing, the one I sat through with my friend Rachel Cameron, who, looking back, was actually my ‘frienemy’ (but how was I to know that just two weeks after our movie date she’d tell everyone in my class that I picked my nose?), I note in my Lisa Frank journal that I wasn’t feeling the film as much anymore.

“It has lost some of its appeal,” I admit on April 12, 1998. “But its still the best movie! The music is amazing. Its haunting.” I then spend the next four pages drawing the Titanic in various forms. Sinking. Kind of sinking and slanted. Underwater. Underwater with dead bodies with speech bubbles squawking, “Help!”

I then write about going to a restaurant with Rachel and her older brother after the movie and discussing the music at length with the gay waiter.
"The music really stays with you," I had said to him.
"It really does!" He concurred before the two of us broke out into the chorus from My Heart Will Go On right in the middle of the Mexican restaurant.

You might kind of say I was obsessed, and, I guess, yeah, I was. I had a Rose doll that I couldn’t even keep in the box I was so excited to play with it… at age twelve. I would sometimes take cold showers until my lips turned as purple as my lavender soap so that I could empathize with the passengers who froze to death. I had an entire scrapbook dedicated to Titanic newspaper and magazine clippings. I was even Rose for Halloween in sixth grade. And, yeah, recently, when I cleaned out my closet and found the costume, I tried it on again. I was ecstatic when it still fit, but it was about nine inches too short now. I wore it while I watched my regular TV line-up anyway.

I have since moved on from my Titanic obsession, however. I’ve moved on to bigger and better things. Like a little radio show called This American Life. I am not surprised if you just had to Google it to figure out what I am talking about. Not many people I know listen to it, but they should. Each week Ira Glass, the host, introduces a series of acts ranging from poetry or fiction to essays to interviews that correspond with a theme for that week.

I'm kind of in love with it.

“Oh, my God,” I say one day as I sit with my friend Sam while I listen to my iPod. “Oh my GOD.”
Sam looks uncomfortable, “What? Christ… You finished?” he asks. Then quickly adds, “You know, you’re never supposed to actually finish when you do that.”
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. “I just wish I could do what Sarah Vowell just did."
Sam rolls his eyes. He's sick of me talking about Sarah Vowell and David Rakoff, two frequent This American Life contributers.
"Her turn of phrase, man!” I probably say a little louder than I should, but I can’t hear the volume of my own voice over episode 328 of This American Life, “What I Learned From Television”, my personal favorite, and one I have listened to more than once. “Like, I just did a sentence diagram in my head, and the sentence was, man, just, perfect!” I gush.
Sam sits stone faced and quiet. After a moment, he speaks, “You are very weird.”

Things could have been worse. I'd rather be obsessed with a show written by intelligent and pretentious people for intelligent and pretentious people than a clothing brand or say, a boy.
"I'm tired," I say casually to my friend Alex as we lounge around her house one lazy afternoon.
"That reminds me of this funny story!" She begins and I know instantly, as is the case with most people who start off a story claiming its funny, that it will not be. "Once, I was at Matt's house and I was like, 'Matt, I'm tired!' and he was like, 'You do nothing but sleep!' and I was like, 'Matt, that's not true! But, like, I guess it is or whatever! It was really funny and then he was like, 'Take a nap!' so I just napped in his bed like all day."
"All day?" I ask more in a sarcastic tone than anything else. I wouldn't mind, but any little comment I make to Alex is usually followed up by some story about Matt, her on again/off again boyfriend that I am pretty sure is going to dump her again fairly soon.
"Yeah, like, all day," Alex makes eyes at me, "God, what's wrong with you?"

Nothing. Or, I guess I take that back. Loads of things. I may not be obsessed with a boyfriend who doesn't love me half as much as I love him, but I've had my fair share of crushes on celebrities. My Jason Schwartzman obsession is kind of a running joke. I probably wash my hands too often. I suppose you could say that's an obsession. I have this irrational fear of getting popped like John Lennon; every time I am walking and a car is coming from behind, my whole body tenses up. I don't know where this came from. Maybe watching Boys N The Hood too many times or something. I will not eat gefilte fish. I just won't. I completely abhor work; I never want a 'real' job. And, I pretty much exist like an eighty-eight-year-old woman living in war-torn Europe. I listen to the radio. I have quite the extensive record collection. I read. I ride my bike, a lot. My favorite thing to do? Sit around, drink coffee, act pretentious, and dissect movies. In that order. I like to party like its 1939. If I had a checkered diary, an annex, and a weird guy I only liked because I was stuck in hiding with him, I’d be Anne Frank. Practically. Except, maybe with less zest for life.

"I can't handle this."

I make a mad dash for the exit when I leave my friend’s party in the hopes that I don’t have to give any awkward hugs goodbye to the drunk people who ignored me most of the night anyway. I casually touch people on their shoulders and thank the host before I bolt for the door. Robyn follows me out to the car, our arms interlinked like old lovers. I hate to admit I am feverishly pre-menstrual cycling, but its true. I need her support at the moment more than she knows because I am fresh out of Xanax. “So,” she says as we walk the three houses down to where I parked on the street, “Chris seemed to like you quite a bit.”
“Chris was also born around the same time as Jesus,” I say. The boy was my senior by quite a number of years.
“Hmm,” she notes, and we unlink arms when we arrive at my car. “Did you use my permission slip at least?”
I feel for the folded paper in the pocket of my shorts (that I look adorable in, by the way). “No,” I say sheepishly as I pull out the note and stare at it. It looked so authentic, a “Best Friend Sexual Activity Release Form”, signed by Robyn and everything. I hand it to Robyn who leans against my car to admire her work. “I’ll probably scrapbook it,” I half joke. “Since the time consent is over.”
“You should have at least made out with someone,” Robyn shrugs. I know what she is getting at. Robyn’s boyfriend, and my friend, Brian, has a roommate who has shown slight interest, but only when intoxicated, so as far as I am concerned, it doesn't count.
“He doesn’t actually like me,” I explain, “I just look better after a couple beers.”
“I’m sorry, Stefi,” Robyn hands back the permission slip. “He thought the permission slip was really funny though?” I know what the underlying question is; Are you sure he's not interested a little?.
“I can tell he doesn’t really like me though,” I answer.
“What about that other guy? With the tattoos wearing the green shirt?” she asks. “I saw him talking to you too.”
“It is opposite month...” I offer. Earlier this month I decided to live like George Costanza from Seinfeld and do the opposite of everything I usually do. “I guess I could date him. I already decided on lowering my standards, after all.”
“Oh Stefi,” Robyn leans over and hugs me, “Please, you do not need to lower your standards. I take back what I said before. I was just high from Boyfriend Bliss.” Robyn is referring to when she was positively elated at Target and told me lowering my standards, which I suggested as a joke (kind of), seemed like a fabulous idea.
“I know,” I say and try to hug her back, but I am weighed down by a profession sized camera and a heavy bag. My arms barely reach her. “I know I shouldn’t, but I probably will.”
“Why, Stefi?” Robyn unclasps herself from my shoulders and tries to tuck her hair behind her ear, but the wind blows it back into her face as soon as she gets it right.

I wasn’t sure where to start. I was raised on Meg Ryan movies where awkward but pretty gets the guy who won’t leave her alone and she hated at first; John Hughes where goth girls get makeovers and make out with the jocks who later become hockey coaches; and My So-Called Life, which taught me that I’d be OK as long as I had one gay best friend, one slutty girl friend, and a continuous inner dialog running through my head. In high school, I only cried once for not having a straight boyfriend. In college, I just learned to accept it as a fact of life. Like, the sky is blue and Stefi only dates drug dealers (until she realizes they’re drug dealers) and closeted gay guys; 365 days in a year; the guy Stefi likes will never call her. A given.

Its not self loathing (OK, it is a little, but c’mon, this is college. We’re supposed to self loath.), I just accept it. And normally, I’m even all right with it because I assume at one point in my life, when I can use real names, full descriptions and not have to worry about seeing any of the people I am writing about- these stories will be both interesting AND funny and, as a bonus, maybe I’ll publish them and then they’ll be made into a movie starring Amanda Bynes that everyone can watch. Yes? Yes.

“I just think I’d have a lot more, ahem,” I clear my throat, “Fun,” I censor myself, “If I date the guys I normally would not give the time of day.”
“Like the drug dealers and the closeted gay guys?” Robyn questions. She knows what’s up.
“Yeah,” I sort of shudder, “Like the drug dealers and the closeted gay guys. I mean,” I pull out my phone as evidence and flip to the missed call list, which, on my cell phone at least, should really be called the 'ignored call' list. “Coke Head Bryce called me like five times in a row and left two messages. We could be making out right about now!” I snap my phone closed for dramatic effect, taking comfort in the slapping together of the hard plastic case.
“But, do you really want to?” Robyn asks tentatively.
“No,” I answer truthfully. “I just feel like maybe I should.”
“Don’t do anything you don’t want to do,” Robyn advises me.
“Even if it’s opposite month?” I ask.
Robyn purses her lips, “Yeah, even if it is opposite month.” We sit silently for a few moments. “Maybe you just need to do some soul searching and eliminate the dating criteria you don’t really need.”

Soul. I shudder at the word because I’m pretty sure mine was taken away in the third grade when I called Jamie Bohanan a slut just because she had boobs and I didn't. I only like to use the word “soul” when it is used to describe a type of food or the song stylings of Miss Aretha Franklin.

What criteria didn’t I need in a date, anyway? It all seemed so important.

Funny. That needs to stay. I mean, I’m astonishingly good at having a conversation with myself, but I’d go crazy.

Educated. Also a keeper.

Pop cultured. You’ve known me two weeks, you know how I am.

That whole acting like Ira Glass but looking like Jason Schwartzman thing?
Ok, a problem may lie in that one. Consider it nixed.

And now I’ll go out into the world with my new dating criteria, and maybe, while using these guidelines in conjunction with Opposite Month, I’ll actually find someone who doesn’t offer me a free hit of cocaine twenty minutes into our date.

“Aw, Stefi,” Robyn hugs me again. “Here’s to hoping.”
And wishin’. And prayin’.