Secondary Education

The thrill-a-minute ride that is my life had a particularly exuberant swoop lately. Luckily it included an increase an age, which without a doubt made all the difference when the high school administrator giving me the keys to my classroom incredulously asked how old I was. Twenty-two sounds SOOO much better than twenty-one. Not. I’m going to let them be occupied with their ignorance and blind assumptions rather than reveal myself as their younger and more competent replacement. Even if it is only for a day at a time.

Before I got to teach high school for the first time though, I had a whole day to wallow in my Birthday. If you don’t know how I feel about my birthday then please refer to “Better Than Yours” a little further down the page. Anyway, Mickey loves me and I spent the day at Disneyland for free. I’ve recently learned that many people would consider this a bad thing, and that the joy of doing things alone is lost on them. I don’t understand that, even a little bit, because when else to you get to make every decision based on your own preferences and desires. I got to ride Storybook Land without any judgment, and skip the monorail because I think it’s stupid. And I still had a whole park full of people wishing me a happy birthday. (I also got asked out by a girl, but that’s neither here nor there.) Carrying a pink parasol- I’m pale, this was a strictly practical addition to my costume- and semi-molesting a caramel apple as I walked through New Orleans Square I got to be the belle of my own ball. This was followed by dinner so good all the neighboring tables knew about it (and started ordering it a la Harry Met Sally) and mildly sexually harassing a very hot waiter. Sorry Bret.

There may not have been sexy escapades this year, but there was lots of love, and a ridiculous number of promises for lunch and drinks, which I suppose goes along with the whole ‘being an adult thing’. Not that sexy escapades and adulthood are mutually exclusive- at least they better not be or I’m going to be redefining adulthood for my own purposes. But things have been distinctly drab since the completion of college and the acceptance of a living with my parents, scandalous-less reality. Twenty-one may have been so fantastic that it will be hard to beat, but damned if I am going to let twenty-two be the dip after the peak.

Anyway, my glorified babysitting job has recently come with some interesting challenges- some of them more expected than others. For instance, it didn’t seem at all out of line for me to explain the French Revolution with a bagel slicer as visual aid. But, talking about the first stage of psychological behavior (0-2 years old), while trying not to look at the girl in the second row that is 7 months pregnant was almost entirely beyond me. Threatening the class with various forms of dismemberment for talking during the test (i.e. “I will rip off your leg and beat you to death with it- and fail you”) comes without thinking. But trying to be my witty and charming self in a class half full of deaf students- when I don’t know whether to look at the student or the interpreter- was a challenge almost beyond my adaptation skills. The beauty of being a substitute is that all of these issues are only yours for one day, though you do get a whole new set the next day. If knowing how to handle that isn’t a resume booster then I don’t know what is.

Newsflash of the Week: I wore a dress to do my holiday shopping- for the express purpose of receiving exceptional service- and accordingly, it was bestowed upon me. I also managed to make one man trip. Apparently walking and thorough appreciation of my legs is not compatible. No permanent damage was sustained.

Adventures in Substituting

After two days of substitute teaching I am, obviously, an expert. Or at least the children have not yet threatened to murder me after class. Even after I told one talkative boy that his class would murder him if he kept talking- thus keeping them from going to lunch. At the end of the school day I thought to myself that it had really been a rather uneventful day, and wasn’t sure that anyone would really care what I did all day. Then I thought about the 1st and 5th graders I’ve been spending time with, their relative insanity compared to normal people in the universe, and decided that I have the most hilarious job ever.

Everything always starts out very simple which is to be expected when you consider that all of these children were born after 2000. I have mascara older than them. That I still use. So, today, the only thing on the lesson plan was to teach the 5th graders about rain and the cycle of water on the earth. In the interest of trying to make a lecture about rain last an hour and keep their attention we talked about why we drink running water as opposed to standing water.

Me: “Where does the water you drink come from?”

Class: “A bottle.” “The sink.” “The fridge.” “The store.” “My mom.”

Me: “Okay. Why shouldn’t we drink standing water, like pond water.”

Class: “Because it’s disgusting.”

Me: “Yes, but why is it disgusting?” No answer. “How about because things breed in there like algae, and frogs and pods of mosquito eggs that hatch and attack you?” Terrified screams. “Nevermind. You know what a fish tank looks like after a week or so?”

Class: “Green and icky.”

Me: “Yes. Now would you drink your fish tank water?”

Class: Paroxysms of death. “NOOO!!” “Eww!” “Please God No, the horror!” I may have added the last one.

In short, nothing traumatizes these children more than bacteria. Well, that and the unknown. As one would expect, they felt the need to correct me when I did anything at all different from what their regular teacher would do. This included disciplinary procedures. When I realized this process was undermining my authoritarian presence I told them that I was starting a new list of bad children and anyone on Ms.R’s list was subject to my consequences- and they didn’t even want to know what those were going to be. This had a result equivalent to telling them I’d booked them a ticket on the train to Auschwitz. I enjoyed relative silence and obedience for the rest of the day.

While I’m still not sure whether to consider it a blessing or a curse, the tendency of all elementary school kids to say exactly what they’re thinking is endlessly entertaining. The first graders decided amongst themselves that I was sixteen while I was reading Franklin’s Thanksgiving.

“Miss R, are you sixteen?”

“No. We’re not talking about how old I am.”

And with proper incredulous disbelief, “Are you seventeen?!”

Knowing that it really wouldn’t matter what I said I continued talking about the dinner of the turtle family and their moose friends. My only real concern being that they were going to tell their teacher I’m sixteen, thus confirming the fears of the entire staff who came to welcome me/ speculate whether I’d snuck out of middle school to mess with little kids. I haven’t gotten a phone call yet so I figure I’m ok.

Two little girls cried in the course of one school day, and I may not have handled it perfectly, but they did stop crying. The first came to me saying that Rosalinda wasn’t going to be her friend anymore. I said that no one wanted to be friends with Rosalinda anyways because she’s mean. After a moment of blind confusion the little girls apologized and hugged, and did not ask me for anymore help with their friendship. The second was upset because the boy next to her was making fun of her. I found out he said, “Isabella farted.” Since Isabella did not fart, she was understandably very upset. When I stopped the tears running down my face, I told her that boys are awful human beings and she can basically ignore everything they say to her from this point on. She may be a little screwed up for a while.

It’s probably true that I’m mentally fucking them up in equal measure to enriching their minds, but we’re all having a lot of fun in the process. And it’s only one day right?

Next week: Subbing for high school…

Yes, No, Maybe So

doyoulikeme

Secretly, or in my case not so secretly, we all wish that relationships were as simple as they were in 5th grade. Someone passed you a note with very convenient check boxes while someone four seats to the right and up two awaited the answer to that timeless question: Do you like me?

For as much as we accuse ourselves of immaturity in thinking that a checklist should be the best way to determine attraction, there was directness in this method that is blatantly lacking in all of our interactions since. There is bravery in passing a note like that because no matter which box is checked the entire class is going to know about it as it makes its way back, and the entire school is going to know by recess. Reputation is really the only thing that hangs in the balance at that point, since even if the answer is yes the best you can hope for is someone to share your Little Debbie cupcake with- and who honestly wants to share their cupcake?? But the principle stands. Whether it’s the girls out to lunch, or the boys over beers, everyone is saying to their friends “I have no idea what’s going on. What the hell does he/she want?” And all of this confusion would be much simpler if we all started with a basic statement of interest.

There is even confusion in the discussing of anonymous notes. I walked up to the host of a restaurant just as someone from the kitchen passed him a note. He seated me and asked how I was, to which I replied, “I’m good, no one is passing me secret notes, but it’s still been a pretty good day.” It could have very satisfactorily ended there, but no. He said, “If it was from a nice blonde instead of Juan it would make my day, too.” And with that conjecture over whether he meant me, or blondes in general or only meant to express the general ennui of being a host began. Granted, I’m more oblivious to subtleties of intention than most people (I’m usually the last to know if someone is hitting on me), but how is anyone supposed to know when flirting is innocent as opposed to a means to an end. I have been through enough sorta, kinda, I-guess-you-can-sort-of-look-at-it-that-way relationships to realize that you probably wouldn’t get a yes or no answer even if you asked for one, but it’s nice to think about.

The root of the problem is that no one really knows exactly what they want, and even when they think they do, they’re usually wrong and end up doing something completely contrary. Which is what makes the art of predicting other peoples nonsense, as well as your own, a fruitless exercise. Even knowing that a checklist would only be a stop-gap solution, I would most likely do it anyway; a few hours peace of mind is better than none. I, personally, have been on the precipice of employing a more comprehensive checklist with more questions and possible answers, but it began to take on shades of standardized testing- kind of sucks the romance out of things, not to mention the sincerity.

More often than not I’m fairly certain all of us would answer “Maybe so” if asked whether we like someone (or if we like like them) because liking someone and figuring out how much of your time you’re willing to spend around them is an ongoing decision. Figuring out your own crap is hard enough, much less trying to mush it together with someone else’s. You don’t go sharing your cupcake with just anyone.

Don’t You Fret

gradcartoon I just signed my first check toward paying off my student loan. This event is notable, not only because I rarely sign checks- with the whole not having funds with which to justify them thing, but because it means I have been done with college for 6 months. While this ‘grace period’ might make perfect sense in an economy where, you know, people are employed, there is an essence of the cruel about it under the current circumstances. The state of California currently has an unemployment rate of 12%, NOT including recent graduates who haven’t previously held a job- that is pretty sucky. Those orientation promises of your golden worth to the global work force are feeling very far away.

I honestly hold no grudges or blame toward the U.S. Department of Education and Boston University financial aid for the $70,000ish dollars I currently owe them. I don’t even regret going into enough debt to squelch any and all designer handbag purchases for the next twenty years or so. As it stands I can make the minimum payments out of the babysitting, substitute teaching, and odd writing assignment which I take in the fervent hope that one day not to far from now I might actually work in the field in which I was trained. Silly, I know.

Pretty sure more than a few of my fellow graduates have considered faking their own death after finding out it’s the only way to clear your debt. I’ve used assumed names to get into clubs (Gemma Doily), and more recently to sneak into exclusive fitness centers, but doing it full time sounds like a whole lot of work- aside from the felony issue. I mollify my panic by thinking that in the long run a year of unemployment is going to sound like nothing, and that being a year younger than my peers entitles me to some spare time before the universe is justified in expecting brilliant and significant things from me. Whether that’s true or not is entirely beside the point. I’m finding it physically impossible to do nothing, I’m just bad at it, and thus find myself creating utter nonsense (like this blog) to the general benefit of no one in particular. One day it’s all going to end up exactly right though. I possess excess reserves of the shiny, happy, bubbly, fresh-faced, recent college grad attitude and they’re going to last exactly as long as I need them to.

So, not to worry. What’s meant to be will be and so on and whatnot.

P.S. No one is getting presents this year. Blame the government.

Mmm Pie

2009-10-30_2 By request, and in honor of the season, I am going to tell you how to bake a pumpkin pie that will not shame you in the eyes of the pilgrims or those who have to eat it. The first and most important issue to address is the common use of canned pumpkin goo as the base for the typical Thanksgiving pie. This is disgusting, unconscionable, and will not be tolerated if you are going to use this recipe. Pie ought not to taste like aluminum and feeding sub-standard pie to those you claim to love, or put up with, is mean. Don’t do it.

If you are wondering how in God’s name you are to make a pie without preformed cylinders of unnaturally orange food product then you need to leave. Just Google search ‘butt’ like you were planning to do anyways and please never make food for anyone- yourself included.

If instead you are dazzled by the prospect of turning a vegetable into pie (or muffins, or bread, or…goodness it all sounds so good I’ve bought five pumpkins and now I need you to enlighten me as to how they become food) then you are ready for Step 1. Buy a pumpkin. You probably have one, but if you’ve stabbed it in the face to make it smile at your neighbors like the creepy gourd that it is then it’s too late. No one wants to eat that. It started rotting the second you cut it open and now it has dirt and candle wax and probably bugs in it. Eww. So go get yourself an unmolested pumpkin. You can draw a face on it of you must, and even name it, but dont poke any holes in it. Only get a massive pumpkin if you are feeding your family of eighteen, otherwise a little one will do- roughly the size of your head.

Step 2: Hack it up. You are going to take your pumpkin and a very large knife and cut it into bits and pieces. Embrace the spirit of our intolerant, ignorant, and mildly hypocritical forebears by ruthlessly killing that which you don’t understand. Dispose of the guts however you like but don’t let them near the pie. You want some good-sized chunks- as if you were making mashed potatoes out of them (the pumpkin chunks, not our forebears). Throw them all in a big pot and boil them to within an inch of their life, or until soft and stabbable with a fork. Then peel the skin off (this is where the Indian forebears come in) and put your mushy pumpkin chunks straight into a food processor, if you have one, or into a bowl, if you don’t. Either way you want to mash and stir until you get something the consistency of a creamy soup. Now you have your pumpkin muck.

Step 3: Pie filling. This part is super easy. You are literally going to stir all of these things up in a bowl in this order. That’s it, you know until step 4. 2009-10-30_1

2 eggs, beaten

1 3/4 cups Pumpkin muck

3/4 cup sugar

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon ground ginger

1/4 teaspoon ground cloves

1 2/3 cups evaporated milk

Step 4: Now you have a bowl of orange-ish milk with specks floating on top- perfect! You are going to carefully pour this into a 9 inch pastry shell almost to the tippy top- but not quite. I make my pie crust, but if you’re exhausted after all of this hacking business and generally want to tell me to stuff it at this point then don’t worry about it. I’m not nearly as indignant about the use of inauthentic crust and will not come to your house to malign you verbally with excessive force if you cheat. If I sense an empty pumpkin can, however, I’m going to find you.

Step 5: Bake. You’ll have enough filling to make 2 pies, so transport these very slowly to your preheated oven which should be a toasty 425 degrees. Try really hard not to spill in the oven because it’ll burn in the bottom and be gross. After 15 minutes reduce the heat to 350 degrees and wait another 20 minutes. You should be able to poke it with a knife (I know, more stabbing) and pull it out clean so just leave it in an extra few minutes if theres still pie goo on it. It’s still going to wobble a little when you take it out, but that’s ok. Your pie will also collapse a little as it cools, but that’s ok too.

You’re done! You have made an exceptionally yummy pie without dishonoring the entire holiday of Thanksgiving and the spirits of all of your ancestors. You can eat it now.

Dear Abbey

2009-02-24_12 — I'm the one with no shoes on.

Because I am a good tourist and an obedient offspring of a baby boomer I made the pilgrimage to Abbey Road. That it was with the entirety of my class and fell under the heading of a field trip was just a happy coincidence. It also created the opportunity to manhandle the group into recreating the iconic album cover with me. While hardly original, there had never been a re-enactment with me in it and I was determined to remedy that. And if I was going to go to all of the trouble of embarrassing myself then it had better be perfect. Which meant that three of my classmates were going to walk when and where I told them to, with the appropriate feet first.

I chose my professor to take the picture, not only for his Britishness- thus knowing when to safely step into the middle of the street (what is so hard about looking to your right? Americans…) – but also for his very encouraging attitude. He and I really seemed to be the only people thoroughly enjoying writing on the studio wall and staring at Paul’s former apartment. So he also got to be the one to hold my gold ballet flats while I marched across the zebra stripes, barefoot, with my reluctant compatriots. There was some traffic stoppage involved, but that’s hardly new for me. Pretty hair really is an irreplaceable tool of power. Anyway, if you’re driving down Abbey Road then you really ought to expect morons to fling themselves into the street anyway. And so, with the lorries at a standstill and a piece of gravel stuck under my baby toe, we walked across the street (like fifteen times).

The picture is a little less than perfect, but I think the spirit of the exercise was preserved. Pretty much everyone thought I was ridiculous, but that could be why I had so much fun. Never let the people around you keep you from enjoying the things you’re excited about in exactly the way you want to. In fact, I find forcible participation rather effective.

Better Than Yours

January092009-01-14_7 My twenty first birthday could not have been more ridiculous or fabulous than it was. This was most likely due to the great number of friends and random people on the street whom I shamelessly informed that I LOVE my birthday, in the days leading up to December. You know that all encompassing thrill and obsession that the average five year old vibrates with when their birthday is coming up? You know, the “oh my god, I’m only 4 and 364/365ths for another four hours! Ahhhh!” Well, whether luck or insanity, this spirit has been preserved in my annual celebrations- except for the counting part. Math is not my thing. Parties are.

It’s amazing what people will do for you when they know that you’re pretty much guaranteed to flip out over it. The celebration of my entering the ranks of the drinking, in Boston, was celebrated over a period of about two weeks wherein I drank every single day, virtually gave up sleeping, and the only food I remember eating was hastily acquired in the interest of drinking more. Taking place at the end of the semester this means I completed all of my finals while drunk. Except the one that I missed entirely because of the boy in my bed- woops.

Since the actual day of my birth fell on a Monday I planned for it to be pretty low key with the whole having to go to class the next day thing and all. Went to the BU Pub for a couple ceremonial drinks, since I could, but the friends I went with somehow turned it into a Boston bar tour through the 10 degree weather. One of them lost her phone which was later found in her bra. I almost ate the origami flower in one hand instead of the chicken finger in the other. And I’m fairly certain I did the splits more than once, in more than one bar (it’s apparently my go-to drunken party trick).

Then there was the actual party- on the weekend, when normal people go out. I’d already been drunk for five days at this point, but now I was dressing up for it. In a wonderful stroke of genius my roommate had organized a James Bond Pub Crawl, thus allowing for all the girls to dress like sexy Bond girls and guilting the guys into wearing tuxes (and I may have told them they didn’t have to get me a present if they dressed up). The night was perfection. A friend who had flown out from California for the occasion was lost between bars 2 and 3 when she wandered into a fire station. I gave my shoes to another friend. Being a massive lightweight I’d had enough to drink that I probably should have been dead a few times over, but the alcohol gods kept me going all night without even an inkling of a hangover.

The walk home was slightly more difficult in having to keep one girl from going home with strangers, realizing we were barefoot at 2 a.m. on Comm. Ave., and getting a short-lived piggy back ride from Christian, a nice boy walking his bike home while holding his broken light saber. That night ended in the amazingness that is challah grilled cheese sandwiches, but the shitshow continued.

Went to the back bar of Our House (around the corner from the foosball tables) where I got to pick drinks out of ‘the book’- I can recommend Sex in a Hot Tub only because it’s the one thing I remember drinking. Edited my entire final movie project with a beer in my hand and my professor thought it was somewhat incredible. Inevitably, since I was treating my body like the rum punch bowl at the assembly hall (read some early 19th c. literature, you’ll get this reference and be very sophisticated- like me), I got a pretty nasty case of the flu. Thus I added a healthy dose of Nyquil to the mix, and a few more naps. This did not stop me from attending $1 draft Thursday night at An Tua Nua upon request. I was not so sure I wouldn’t collapse, but had a couple assurances that someone would catch me, so I danced and drank with energy that came from god knows where. I also vaguely recall agreeing to be somebody’s little spoon.

The ramifications of those couple of weeks followed me for a bit after that. Got a call from one gentleman asking me out who came up on my phone as Creepy Boy. I told him I was moving to California, he asked if I was blowing him off, I said yes. I also garnered a reputation for being a lot cooler than I really am. I suppose I felt the need to live up to that when I flew to London three weeks later.

Basically the festivities of my 21st birthday are so marvelous as to be virtually unmatchable. But I am turning 22 soon…

London Clubs: A Guide for Hot Girls

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Disclaimer: While some people may judge, not incorrectly, that it is discriminatory to exclude advice for guys and all people who are not hot when they venture out to London clubs I must remind you all that I can only discuss the experiences I have had. And in the interest of specificity and accuracy these distinctions are important because if you are male and/or less than hot then there is basically zero chance that you are going to walk into a London club for free, as my ‘hot girl’ friends and I did on all of the occasions we ventured down the streets of Piccadilly Circus and Kensington High St.

Getting on with it, London clubs are really, predictably, very club-like. And though all club owners and habitual club visitors will assure you that they are dramatically different in very important socially dividing ways (oh, London, and your antiquated class divisions) they are all dark, stuffy, slightly too loud, and populated by individuals a few notches skeezy-er than anyone outside of the club. This is because, unlike you, they have paid large fees to get in and they have decided this entitles them to partial ownership of everything inside- most notably, everything your teeny tiny cocktail dress covers up. And you thought it was going to be such a classy joint when there was no sign outside and you slipped in past the chain smoking Kate Moss wannabes waiting outside in the rain.

With the consideration that a hot girl expects a measure of uninvited groping when going out anywhere, there are perks to the club experience worth mentioning. First and foremost- free drinks. Not that you couldn’t get free drinks wearing jeans in the pub around the corner, but at Cuckoo you suddenly find yourself attached to a table with an endless supply of exactly the drink you want without any expectations, because everyone is too rich and wasted to keep track of anything under a ceiling with very distracting color changing lights. Other good things to remember about Cuckoo: the hot guys are downstairs so bring your drink from upstairs, be nice to the coat check girls, and you will meet the coolest girls in the loo. The 2 litre bottle of Belvedere vodka looks pretty awesome with a sparkler on top, too.

Then your life starts to follow the plotline of mob movies- but that can go different directions as movies will tell you. (Want to mention that being kidnapped and forced into sexual slavery at the service of a mob is not likely, but still a possibility, so please do not go to clubs alone. Bring a buddy and stick with her, your first grade teacher knew what she was talking about. ) On one occasion I was following my friend up a staircase in Boujis with our unbreakable chain of handholding when a man stopped me. There was some nonsense about my smile teasing him and beautiful eyes, but he became a problem when he leaned forward and licked my neck. Not a seductive nibble, a full on tongue bath from shoulder to ear. Eww. This was obviously not okay, which is why the hand holding was so important. I pulled on my chain of safety and was quickly pulled out of range. I’m not sure how one goes about preventing neck licking, but I don’t recommend it if the situation is at all avoidable. Beyond that Boujis is lovely, if you have excellent timing you might spy a royal or two, and it’s in a nice part of town for drunkenly stumbling down the pavement in your four inch heels chasing down a cabbie.

The opposite swing of the pendulum manifested itself in the form of young, wealthy, drunk, European gentlemen inviting us to San Tropez. The thing about this is that he was very likely serious. Apparently there was a private plane leaving the next day. There was a fair amount of debate about this between my friend and I, but ultimately we decided work and not being potentially abducted was the better choice. Won’t tell anyone else what to do, but at least google him or something before you pack your Brazilian bikinis.

Chances are that there will be celebrities. You may or may not know who they are, I mostly didn’t because there are lots of “famous” British people who were on Big Brother or East Enders and I just don’t care. You can’t count on Prince Harry going out exactly when and where you do (rumor has it he asks girls what knickers they’re wearing before talking to them- so wade that mine field forewarned), so brush up on your cricket and football if you want to know when it’s appropriate to gush. One night at Amika I met a famous American basketball player, which likely would have been more thrilling if I watched basketball. He went by Mike and we talked about living in California, so it was fun, but this scenario will probably be more exciting for you if you find someone you actually think is awesome. Amika features an elevated dance cage, every Lady Gaga remix known to man, and sporadic confetti explosions, but watch out for the handsy admirers. Most are so intimidated by all the girls to even speak to you, but being dragged over the booth backwards into some random’s lap once is one time too many.

Then there are the guys who think they are famous or otherwise deserving of your fawning and groveling. Personally I’m not for the fawning or groveling under any circumstances, but don’t let me spoil your fun. At least make sure he is not the scruffy, foreign, smoker man telling you all about his top secret something (mission, movie, or millions) in hopes that you’ll plop down on the light up table in front of him and…yeah. Sketch, with different themed rooms to suit your pleasure, always has a few of these hopefuls. The dining room is magical if you can get a table in the back, but don’t get stuck in the egg room for too long or you will drown in the pool of preppy.

While I encourage you to wear only what makes you feel unstoppably sexy I found it very funny to wear satin dresses and feel hands quickly slip off as they try to grab your ass. It’s a small kind of victory, but if they’re going to do it anyway then you might as well get your kick out of it. I don’t think any of this could fairly be considered advice, but knowledge is power, and maybe if you know the neck licker is coming you can save yourself. Otherwise, just say yes to the crack baby shots or a redheaded slut if it’s that kind of night…

“Greek” is Great

greek-cast02[1] The cast of Greek has appealed to their audience’s sense of vicarious adventure for three seasons, and taking advantage of a mildly risqué plot they are now encouraging an important facet of Greek life that is often forgotten- philanthropy. In last week’s episode “The Half Naked Gun” Casey turns the annual undie run (mostly an excuse to run through campus in your favorite frilly boy shorts) into a clothing drive for the homeless. The episode is meant to kick off the recent partnership the show has made with DoSomething.org to encourage everyone to do what they can to help in their community.

The cast is going to appear in PSA’s supporting a few charities that need volunteers. Dilshad Vadsaria (Rebecca) has a special relationship with Girls Inc. since she “started volunteering at schools on [her] own and ran into Girls Inc. [She] found out what a great program it is and came to them with some ideas”. Global Green USA and Cancer for College, who encourage green living and supply college scholarships for cancer patients respectively, are also featured. Dilshad, Spencer Grammer (Casey), and Scott Michael Foster (Cappie, sigh) all agreed that supporting charities is not always the easiest thing- along with the studying, sleeping, not sleeping, eating, and maintaining sanity that fill a college students life- but “committing yourself for as little as an hour a week can make such a big difference”.

Greek has found a foothold with an audience that goes beyond college students to include reminiscing parents and anxious high school students which will, hopefully, make this campaign to participate that much more effective. Jacob Zachar (Rusty) thinks “the show is so relatable because of the different kinds of characters” and the full spectrum of events they show as being part of college life. Whether you think you’re an “Ashley” or a “Casey” someone on Greek has acted out part of your life, and then you kind of wished you had the rest of theirs. Granted there’s plenty that goes above and beyond with the excuse of entertainment value, Evan Chambers’ Ironman car for one (which Jake McDorman says was completely awesome, even if he had no idea how to drive stick).

While a lot of the cast has never attended college, or at least not ones with any kind of Greek life, they all seem to feel like they’ve gotten the best of the experiences they’ve missed through the show. Jake likes that the writers have “covered every facet… being the odd one out, how it feels to be in a new environment, go through relationships and breakups. And then every once in a while Scott walks around in his underwear.” Thank God for that.

Scotland’s Best Bartender

MitreBar One day, while living in London, I thought it would be fun to go to Scotland. So I did, the next day. With only a couple of sketchy run-ins during my connection through Glasgow I made it to Edinburgh at 1am. Only one trip around the national gallery, alone, in the dark, later I found a cab that got me to my hotel. There, the exceptional night manager at the George Hotel made up for the evening’s adventures by upgrading my room to a king sized suite (thank you, Eric).

Then, in the process of a trip that included pretending the cannon ceremony in Edinburgh Castle for the Queen’s birthday was for my benefit, and aimlessly wandering the city in search of escapades and free booze I happened upon a pub. I had already stumbled on the tourist marvel that is the Scotch Whisky Experience- a thrill ride wherein you play the part of grain, that ends with many shots of the ‘water of life’ in the interest of flavor appreciation- and was quite a few sheets to the wind at this point. As such, food seemed like a reasonable idea, and the first pub I found wandering down the Royal Mile was as good a place as any. It turned out to be much better than that.

Looking oh-so-classy stumbling into the Mitre Bar at four in the afternoon, smelling like all of Scotland’s best distilleries simultaneously, I sat myself at the bar in front of Jamie the Hot Bartender. I picked the right pub.

“I would like some Scottish food please.”

“As opposed to what, lass?”

Before I continue some things need to be said about the Scottish accent. Namely, that hearing it will in all likelihood make you at least consider removing all of your clothes. Also, that my name with these intonations takes on a life all its own resulting in involuntary shivers down my spine.

With that understanding, and one that the April tourists on the Royal Mile are either elderly couples or travel weary honeymooners, what happened next makes a little (not a lot) more sense.

Jamie decided that the tourist trap I’d been through earlier in the day may have been successful in getting me sloshed, but failed horribly in providing me with any real education about whisky. And really who better to get a lesson from than a Scottish bartender? Whether that was the only thing I wanted to learn from him is completely irrelevant. Somewhere in between the shots that seemed to magically appear in front of me before I’d swallowed their predecessors I did eat some food. I don’t remember what it was, but I’m sure there was eating because there is no way I would have retained consciousness if there wasn’t. Jamie didn’t hesitate to put another shot in front of me- this one from Islay.

Now I didn’t know much about whisky, but I knew that there are those that slide down your throat into a cozy pool, and those that burn. And whatever they put in Islay whisky (I’m fairly certain it’s fire), it burns. So I refused- probably with more slurring and less courtesy than I normally possess. Jamie’s rather brilliant solution was to drink that one himself and give me a Speyside so deceptively strong that my vocal cords went numb.

“How’d you like that then?”

Couldn’t really respond what with the vocal incapacitation. But that didn’t seem to be the kind of response he was looking for anyway.

“Aye. I was hoping that’s what you’d say.”

And then Jamie leans over the bar and kisses me. Like really kisses me. Hand in my hair, eyes closed, just a little bit of tongue- all with a two foot bar and about twenty shot glasses between us. He let go as I swayed rather precariously on my bar stool. Honestly, I was all set to clear the bar and pull him on top of me right then, but I was having trouble remembering how to use my legs, so I settled for smiling.

There were other patrons in the bar and it was technically his job to serve them so the amber bottles and I would occasionally be left to our own devices. This made for really the most pleasant afternoon a girl could spend- interspersed with quick, intense kisses and Jamie saying my name just because he could tell I trembled down to my toes every time he did.

Eventually I had to leave and catch my train. I regained enough use of my legs to make it out the door and down the street, but not enough sense to realize that the process works better when you’re facing the direction you’re walking. I tripped over the threshold as I savored my last few seconds of eye contact with Jamie the Hot Bartender. Totally worth it.

Hillary of Troy

Author: hillaryoftroy