Something Old, Something New...

For those of you not in the know, Boy and I became recently engaged.

As a twenty two year old who hasn't been to a wedding since her Aunt Stacey's, when I was two years old, its been an interesting experience preparing for a wedding that's a year and three months away.

For most, over a year means plenty of time.

For a control freak like moi, it means, never enough time.

As I scour the first thirty pages of Google after searching, "Affordable Nashville Wedding Venues", my mind and heart begins to race. I am ineviatebly sent to dozens of wedding blogs filled with... wedding porn. For those of you unaware of this phenomenon, as I was three months ago, let me enlighten you. Wedding porn means hoards and hoards of beautiful pictures of weddings that will never look like yours.

In the beautiful world of wedding porn, brides are never above a size five. (And they never have the armpit-fat that I'm terrified will plague my wedding pictures just as they plagued my prom pictures.) Sunshine is impeccably always over the horizon. The camera focuses on the bride, allowing everyone else to look fuzzy, making the bride look beautiful. There's hardly any crying, either out of emotion of the beautiful day or because Uncle Fred got drunk and fell on the cake. And there are alway pictures of random things showing that the bride easily got her bridal party to work their fingers to the bone wrapping Mason jars with pretty ribbons and dropping tealight candles inside, then hoisiting the Mason jars into trees.

Seriously.

What the hell?

Not only that, friends, but if I see another black and white photo with a single, in-color red rose, I'll scream. If I see a photo of the brides shoes with the wedding ring slipped onto the high heel against a solid white background, I'll scream. And those breeze, Thomas Kincaid-like photos of the bridal gown on a hanger, against a picture window where the sunlight streams in magnificently? I'll scream again. (Seriously, these photos make me wonder: Did the photographer wait for hours for the sun to get into the right position? Or was Walt Disney himself the wedding planner and did he command the sun to move and shift in the same way I'll undoubtably command my bridesmaids to move and shift both out of my way and to avoid harm [i.e, the afroemention drunk Uncle Fred scenario])?

The wedding porn is addictive, to say the least. With two male brides"men" and one female bridesmaid with a two year old, I find myself wondering: "Whose going to help me cut out paper butterflies, write poetic quotes on them, and string them up so high above the reception, no one will be able to read the quotes, much less see the magnificent detail I've put in each damn butterfly?"

The answer, my friends, is no one. Maybe my mother, but she'll just look at me like I'm crazy if I were to suggest such things.

It doesn't help that when I mention such things to the Fiancee, (like: "What if we gave out honey jars as the wedding favors? They would have our names on them and say 'Meant to Bee'. How cute?!") he begins to squint his eyes, sighs, and says, "How much will THAT cost us?" (This is coming from the guy who suggested a back yard barbeque wedding. Seriously. He wants me eating barbeque in a wedding dress. I can only imagine the stains and how vibrantly well they will show up in our photos.)

So, I sit, a year and some months away, freaking out to myself. And maybe that's okay. Maybe soon I'll adapt a more laissez-faire attitude and say, "What is the easiest way we can have a fun time, feed our friends and family, and look good for the pictures we'll show our grandkids?" And maybe I will soon stop trying to figure out a way to hire the Disney corporation as full time wedding planners on a Sam's-Club-Brand-Soda budget.

Or maybe I will figure out a way to hire them and all the stress will be off. Either way, it's going to be a hell of a ride.

The Change of Life

Well, I've been toying with an idea for months and I've been too nervous to tell friends and family, so here it is in the blogosphere. Maybe if I can articulate my feelings, I can make a final decision.

I'm thinking of dropping out of college.

Honestly, I haven't learned a damn thing in 3 years of post-high school education. It is very frustrating.

I am tired of waiting for my life to truly begin. There are things I want to do. I want to spend my energy writing a book and trying to get it published. I want to focus on my job and acquiring some form of financial security. I want to volunteer with charities and contribute to the world. I want days off so that I can stay at home and work on my relationship with my fiancee. I want to start my own business and watch it flourish or fail. I want to learn from crazy mistakes and be able to say: "Hey, I have experienced some crazy things."

Between working full time and going to school full time, I haven't been able to do any of those things in quite some time.

I'm also beginning to think I should change my major from theatre to public relations. I need time to think that through.

Also, I have a year to plan a wedding, and I want time to focus true creative energy into that so that I can have a true once-in-a-lifetime experience.

These are simply thoughts in my head. I haven't made a final decision. But I'm walking that fine line.

Now I simply need the nerve to tell my mother.

Strip Clubs and You: A User's Guide

One of my dearest and oldest friends was getting married. Lisa and I had known each other since we were 8, and I was so excited that she was getting married and that I would get to be a bridesmaid. So, in leiu of a traditional bachelorette party, we decided to have a much classier celebration. We ignored the tradition of penis straws and "last night" sashes. We got all dressed up and went out to the Melting Pot.

And after dinner, found ourselves bored.

"I don't wanna go home yet," she frowned.

"Well, Miss Bride to Be, where do you wanna go?"

"Strip club?"

So much for the classy evening.

After a few giggles we realized it would be our first time at a strip club. We excitedly hopped in the car and headed to the only all-nude male revue I knew of in town... only to discover it has been turned into a Jazz club.

I looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "Well?"

"All girl strip club?"

Without another word, we turned around and headed to a strip club, that boasted hundreds of beautiful naked girls.

The two of us in a titty bar was interesting to say the least. Lisa was straight as they come and I am a 2 on the Kinsey Scale. But the reason Lisa and I have been friends for 15 years is because we're always up for the experience just to say we did it. The "why not?" attitude has got us through a lot in the past.

We walked in tentatively, to be told that it was BYOB, meaning alcohol was not served on the premises. But with our receipt, we could get complimentary sodas, since we were "ladies". We joked to each other how odd that they would be conservative on their drinking policies, of all things.

And, what is there to say about the first trip to a strip club that hasn't been said before?

My personal brand of feminism has been from the Playboy era of sexuality. If a woman is beautiful and smart, what the hell is wrong with her exploiting her sexuality in a fun and safe environment? Who are we, the public, to judge her personal sense of fulfillment? Plus, I've always said if I had the body for it, hell yeah, I would strip. Lisa and I had even very jokingly discussed the possibility of stripping because plus sized girls would appeal to the fetish market, which would mean more money.

I assumed the atmosphere would be fun and playful. Perhaps it was Hollywood's influence, but I expected dancing and cheering and hootin' and hollerin'. I assumed girls would rip off their tops in dramatic flairs and dance to the music, as they happened to be naked. What girl wouldn't enjoy being paid to be cheered at for looking beautiful?

Well, I can answer that now. The six girls I watched dance looked completely dead on the inside. Their faces were all frozen in what was not even an attempt to look happy or flirt with the customers.

We watched girls dance, and were shocked by what "dancing" meant. Call me crazy (or blame Hollywood) but I always assumed strippers would dance... well normally... as if they were at a club. They just happened to be naked.

But no, strippers don't really dance. The music is there incidentally. I don't even know if the strippers I saw even heard the music. They simply gyrated, worked the pole, and simulated sex by spreading their parts for the world to see. During one particularly widening performance, Lisa stared at me.

"Can she do that?!"

"I guess she can..." I murmered.

And the audience? Well, half of the audience unsurprisingly were older men. These men weren't having fun either. They sipped their cokes and stared, zombie-like, at the girls performing. I wondered if these guys were regulars, who hung out there every night. If so, why did they keep coming back? Fifteen dollars for emotionless performances from girls who wouldn't flirt back with you? Watch porn for that! And if there weren't any regulars, how the hell did this place stay in business?

The other half of the audience? Young couples. Men who shyly tried to figure out what they could and could not look out without seeming like creepy old men, and their prospective girlfriends, who tried to cheer and laugh and encourage their boyfriends, but obviously were dealing with low self esteem themselves. None of these girls were beauties nor were they likely to climb a pole without triggering an asthma attach. But hey, at least they get brownie points for trying to spice up their sex lives, I guess.

The most pitiful thing I saw was when Lisa asked me where to smoke. We found a back patio, sectioned off for smokers. As we walked out, I almost laughed out loud. One half of the patio was occupied by strippers who were "off" at the moment, laughing and chuckling and chattering away. The other half of the patio was occupied by men, awkwardly shuffling their feet.

"This segregation between boys and girls reminds me of a third grade dance," I whispered to Lisa.

As we left, I began to think. My entire view of strip clubs had changed. Who was "empowered" here? Certainly not the strippers. The only people in the club who seemed satisfied with their stations in life were the men walking around in business suits who walked around importantly, obviously a part of management. I had also always assumed that if need be, I would have no problem accompanying my boyfriend to a strip club to reassure to him that I'm not the jealous type and that I want to encourage him to explore the sides of him that may feel repressed.

But frankly, if he was turned on or thrilled by seeing these lifeless girls, I'd be pretty disgusted.

Lisa and I had walked in determined to stay at least until we felt we had gotten our money's worth, the $10 lady cover charge. Between dances, I'd ask her questions, determined to not make her last night single a complete bust.

"You want some singles to throw at the girls?"

"Uh, no."

...

"You want a lap dance?"

"Yeah, I don't think so."

When we finally felt as if we had gotten our $10 worth, we left to the parking lot.

I complained bitterly, frustrated by my deflated expectations.

Lisa looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

"You know, while you examined the sociological aspects, Brandi, I was busy myself."

"Really?" I brightened, glad that our uneventful bachelorette party may have been more eventful than I realized.

"Yes," she told me. "I was busy watching the strippers and how they moved their bodies and let me tell you, I have moves to perform for my wedding night."

I guess I was wrong.

I guess someone walked out of that strip club feeling empowered, after all.

America's Past Time: Arguing

For Memorial Day, the Boy and I had numerous friends over to sit on the back porch and eat hamburgers and hot dogs. Beers were cracked open. Cigarettes were lit. Young children played safely away from the aforementioned beer and cigarettes but within sight and proximity. And all was well.

Well, for the most part.

What many had not realized was that the Boy and I had argued prior to the festivities. You see, dear reader, my family is very female-dominated, akin to the show Roseanne. His is very much the opposite. Men rein supreme. So, sometimes our wires get crossed on who is submissive and who is dominant in what situations.

For instance, when grilling.

It was assumed, despite my own personal experience with grilling, that he, as Male Supreme, would do the grilling while I worked on the cutting and preparing of raw meat, and the presentation of the food for public consumption.

Which, frankly, I found to be bullshit.

Okay, yes, I am the Self Proclaimed Worst Cook in the World. Yes, I have screwed up no-bake lemon squares and melted cheese. But I can flip a burger. I have done that much successfully. And truth be told, it was my friends we were entertaining. So I felt entitled to run the show.

Honestly? I was angriest that he wouldn't entertain the idea of me grilling.

If he had said, "I really want to do it, if you don't mind," I would have walked away quietly.

But instead, he said, "Cut the meat, already, so I can grill. It's a guy thing. I'll do the hard part."

Offended, I asked to do the grilling, and was again rebuffed. We began to argue.

This argument accumulated to using our body language in an attempt to intimidate each other out of the kitchen. Puffed up chests, standing on the toes of our feet, squaring the shoulders. When I didn't get my way (I was spoiled as a child), I threw a salt shaker at the wall and stormed off, refusing to speak until my friends arrived. Once they did, I put on a smiling face, called the Boy, "Honey," and was sweet as pie.

I suppose it wasn't right for me to put on a show, but I really disapprove of fighting in front of people. Either way, amazingly, Boy thought the argument was all over.

Wrong.

The moment the last guest left the house, I turned the Silent Treatment back on again.

And I suppose this is "female manipulation" or "mind games" or "childishness" or whatever you want to call it. I began to feel increasingly guilty as the night went on (completely guilty, but too stubborn to admit it or begin to speak to Boy). The fact is, I don't want to be the Bitch, the Nag, or the Psycho Girlfriend. Just as I was about to open my mouth to apologize, the Boyfriend turned to me.

"I'm sorry. I was insensative. I can't believe how bad that must have sounded. I'm just used to the men doing the grilling. Next time, we can do it together."

And, like the Bitch, the Nag, and the Psycho Girlfriend, I couldn't bring myself to admit I was wrong. I simply smiled, "Oh that's alright, baby. I guess we both over reacted. But I'm glad you know how offensive that was."

The fact is: we will never grill together. I'll want to do it my way, and he will want to do it his way. It will blow up into a bigger fight, because it always does. But hopefully, we'll find a new way to approach this particular problem. I'll take care of grilling on the Fourth of July and he'll take care of it on Labor Day.

No matter what we end up doing, I feel like we'll still find something to argue about. But hey: if nothing else, at least he keeps me on my toes.

Sex, Lies, and Videotape

I don't care about Charlie Sheen.

There, I said it.

I don't care how much blow he has snorted, or whose ass he has snorted it off of.

I don't care about Tiger Woods.

I don't care who he sexted, which of his whores is a pornstar, or how he got away with it for so long.

Though I do commend Elin for going after him with a club.

And finally, I don't care if Lindsay Lohan is going to jail or not. (Though I must admit, I went to high school with a guy who slept with her and every time I hear her name I snicker, but after the initial snicker, I pretty much loose interest.)

Why is it when people spiral America is shocked? They are celebrities. What else are they going to do with their time? Take pottery classes at the learning annex?

No, friends. Let's be honest. Even three months ago, we couldn't mentally picture Charlie Sheen in a pottery class.

I think the fact of the matter is, 80% of us would in fact, go a little crazy if we have obscene amounts of money at our disposal and couldn't walk to the mailbox in our pajamas without getting photographed to death.

Sure, most of us might buy our moms a house or pay off our debts or put a college fund aside for our kids. But eventually, you run out of the good stuff to do. When the photos get relentless and the paparazzi slam you no matter what good you do and the money keeps replenishing itself.... what else can you do?

I'll be honest flat out. At that point in my career, I'd be spending my money on, and doing, stuff that was crazy or illegal just to see what I could get away with.

If someone came up to me and I was in that position and said, "Hey, you wanna watch a live donkey show in your hotel room while four naked Brazilian hookers get high on a combination of acid and opium and paint their fantasies? While we're at it, you wanna have room service concierges come into the room and STILL kiss your ass, while they watch all this go on?"

I would probably say, "You really think we can get away with it? Well, let's try!"

And I would place money that most people would disagree, and insist that the fact is they would stay honest, and ground to earth, and honorable. They would never take advantage of their fame.

And it's those same people who turn into Tiger Woods, Charlie Sheen, or Lindsay Lohan and oops! Guess what just got released to the press!

I don't care about this stuff, I reiterate. I am as media and celebrity obsessed as the next person. I read US Weekly and Perez Hilton regularly.

But this scandal stuff? Eh, I got the gist of it, let's move on.

I think the only people who really care about the who what when where why and every minute detail are those who are deathly afraid to figure out what went wrong because they are afraid that they themselves may someday be in the same situation.

Only those who are afraid of falling down the rabbit hole want to hear everything about where the entrance might be. Those who accept they may fall aren't as concerned with watching their step.

Which are you?

That Th-Th-Th-Thong

When I was 14, I began the campaign to my mother to begin wearing thong underwear. I tried everything to convince her that all of my underwear needed to be replaced with thongs. I think a lot of it stemmed from the fact that I had just been allowed to wear makeup and wanted to push her further.

It would be cheaper! It would be more comfortable! No panty lines! (And believe me, with my mothers love for buying me polyester stretch pants, that last one was a big deal for me.)

I tried and tried but it was all in vain. She was not having it.

She felt that if I wanted sexy underwear, it was because I wanted to have sex.

So, she continued to buy cotton high-rise underwear. Because apparently, that alone would prohibit me from having sex.

The truth was, sex was not on my mind at all. I never admitted it out loud, but the real reason I wanted cuter underwear was because that was what the girls in the locker room at school wore cuter underwear. I was already chubbier than other girls, and had to wear glasses. Why did what I wore have to be a third strike against me?

The thinner, prettier girls at school knew they were pretty. They would preen and walk around, unlike me and my best fried who took turns changing into our gym clothes in the bathroom stall in the five minutes before class began.

I think I wanted that confidence. I wanted to look in the mirror and look sexy and feel good about the way I looked. It was not at all about sex, or attracting others. It was about feeling good about myself.

Looking back, I understand what my mother meant. I understood how she felt. I occasionally talk to kids in high school and raise my eyebrows and feel shocked about things that, looking back, weren't a big deal when I was that age.

I don't know if, when I am a grown up, and my fourteen year old asks to wear thong underwear, I will let her. I may react differently than my mother. I may ask her why she really wants it. I may even do what my mom would have considered unthinkable and ask my partner for their equal opinion and contribution to the decision.

Or, I may just say, "Why the hell do you need to feel sexy at 14? Hell no. You can wait until you move out."

Time will tell, I suppose.

My Unconventional Convention

In one of my communications classes today, we began discussing whether or not chivalry was dead.

"When I get to a door, I stop. My husband knows to step forward and open that door for me," said my professor.

"Really?" I asked.

"I know that's right," chimed in several girls.

"Why ya'll always gotta expect us to pay for the first date?" asked one of the guys in the class.

"Well, if you want a second date, you had better pay for that first one," responded one of the girls.

What?!

Maybe I'm crazy. Or maybe it's just the fact that both I and my partner are bisexual and don't care about gender roles.

When it comes to doors: who ever gets there first opens the door for the other. I am NOT going to stand there and wait for him to open the door like I'm a princess any more than I would jump up and treat him like a prince.

Every single date we've ever had has been dutch, except birthdays. This includes Valentine's Day and New Years. I pay my way, he pays his. This is mainly because he won't let me pay due to his manliness, and I think it's stupid for him to pay when I make more money than him.

If he's cold, I give him my jacket. If I'm cold, he gives me mine. If we're both cold and I forgot my jacket, I do not expect him to give me his. I'm the dumb ass who forgot my jacket; I don't expect him to suffer.

Whoever has the most gas in their car drives. This usually turns out 50/50.

I am not going to wait two minutes in the car waiting for him to unbuckle his seatbelt and come around to my door to open it.

I am not a princess. I am not on a pedestal. I do not need to be treated like I am.

I am his equal. I treat him with the utmost respect and he treats me the same.

We are a complete partnership. That is what I want in a relationship.

Who knew that was so revolutionary?

Digital Paranoia

"If he was cheating, I would know within hours," a friend confided in me over Starbucks.

"Really? Because you'd tell by the way he held you or by his eyes?"

A blank expression came over her face. "No. Because I have access to his email, Facebook, and credit card accounts."

Well, then.

The fact is, in relationships, the rules have changed. I know girls who have spent hours trying to guess their boyfriend's email passwords. I know girls who wait until their boyfriends are asleep to go through phones and text messages. I know girls who add their boyfriends' exes on facebook just to 'check up'.

I have not done any of these things... at least, if I had, I wouldn't admit to it on my blog...

I wonder what would have happened if Jackie Kennedy had mentioned to the President one night, "I read on Marilyn Monroe's twitter feed earlier that you two had lunch together. I thought you were in New York, not Hollywood..."

Or if Anne Boleyn had pouted to Henry the 8th about not making their relationship "Facebook official".

Or if Princess Diana had asked Prince Charles why Camilla was in his "top 8 friends" on myspace.

I also think any older friends of mine would be shocked to hear what my peers and I have done in the name of "harmless investigation".

True love is supposed to be about love and honor. I think that twenty or more years ago, it was easier to trust. You couldn't access someone's entire life at your fingertips. You had to trust. It was too easy for your significant other to cheat, so you could either drive yourself crazy wondering or just blindly trust.

In my relationship with John, I am very trusting.

Mostly.

There are moments, where he shields his phone while texting, where I get a little curious. Why is he hiding his phone? Who is he texting? And I'll admit, I accepted his ex girlfriend's facebook friend request because her profile was set to private and it drove me crazy with curiosity (which, I'm sure, is why she added me in the first place as the girl and I have not said five words to each other).

I wish it wasn't so easy.

I wish there was no temptation.

I wish I lived in an age where I could set my mentality to think, "If he wanted to cheat, he could hide it from me so easily, so I might as well trust him instead of constantly searching."

And I try.

Well, I try to set my mentality to think, "He would never cheat! Ever! He loves me!"

And then, I see a comment on his myspace from someone I don't know...

And suddenly I'm checking out this girl's last five years worth of wall comments.

It's a sickness.

The Games People Play

Okay, this is my confessional. It's taken me a long time to realize it, but here goes:

My name is Brandi, and I am Horrible at Games.

Do you remember being a kid, and that first time your mother warned you, "No one likes a sore loser?" Well, I am a sore loser, a gloating winner, and everything in between.

Oh, yes, friends. I have been known to throw dice a little too violently, pout when someone one-ups me, and literally bounce in my seat in delight when I am winning. It has been known that towards the end of the game, my voice gets a little shriller and louder. Friends have been known to roll their eyes and silently mouth, "NEVER!" to each other behind my back when I suggest a round of poker. Some may protest that they have played games with me and never seen this side of me. Rest assured, if I'm in a setting where I need to be polite I can, but I will be going insane inside and will recap the entire game to someone else in excruciating detail later.

And like most things in my life, for this, I blame my mother.

(I do that a lot on here, don't I? I think part of it is because I think she's the only one who really reads this, and she knows it's because I love her.)

If I ran in the house, making the original Nintendo Entertainment System mess up and restart Super Mario Bros 3 just as she was about to reach world 7, I was sure to receive a pop on the bottom. Any attempts at cheating or treating a game of Rummy with anything less than the utmost seriousness would cause my mother to fold her cards, proclaim that I "wasn't playing right" and refuse any games for weeks. And when I tried to talk her into buying me games like Monopoly Jr, she would roll her eyes. "Why? You've been playing real Monopoly since you were five!" She didn't understand that all of my friends' parents would only let them play the junior version, allowing me to feel awkward when finding things to do at sleepovers.

But I digress.

A particular friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, has a penchant for cheating at board games, much to my shock. If it's flipping the mini hourglass in Pictionary, mouthing words to me from across the room during Cranium, or winking at me in Clue, I always reprimand him heavily when we are away from others.

"IT'S NOT RIGHT! I want to win because I'm the best, not because I'm on a team with a cheater!"

"It's just a game, Brandi."

A couple of months ago, I was playing Apples to Apples with a few friends. As it was John's turn to choose a card, he stalled, reading every card carefully and weighing his options thoughtfully.

"Pick a card, already! Jeeze, it's not rocket science!" I growled.

Wide eyed, another friend looked at me.

"Brandi, calm down, it's just a game."

Apparently no one else is as concerned with winners and losers as I am.

Which is fine with me. Maybe I should learn something from this and be a little kinder during these bonding activities.

As long as I'm winning.

'Cause who wants to be kind while they are losing?

She Works Hard For the Money

I don't usually write about work. This blog can be linked to my Facebook, and who knows what corporate big wig is spending tireless hours re-googling the name of the chain, looking for that rogue employee who may be presenting themselves negatively.

But this story is too good to pass up.

So I'll just refrain from mentioning the name of said retail chain.

I was working the other day, when I recieved a phone call from a customer asking if we had a particular product carried by a particular brand.

"No, sir," I said sweetly. "We do carry brands A and B, but not the brands you are looking for."

Angrily, this customer informed me that after hours of internet research, he had determined that brands A and B manufactured their goods overseas. The brand he wanted was manufactured in the USA and he only bought American, thank-you-very-much.

I again apologized for not carrying the brand he wanted.

"Well, I want to talk to your corporate office."

"Yes, sir, I understand your disappointment. The number for that office is 1-800-"

"No," he cut me off. "I don't have a pen and paper."

.......

I had no response for this. Neither the man. Silence lingered in the phone awkwardly. "Well.... I can wait for you to get a pen and paper..." I suggested.

"No!" the man was angry at me again. "Just connect me to your corporate office. Now."

I paused. The phone system did not work that way.

"Sir, I'm sorry but unfortunately I am unable to do that on this phone. You mentioned you had a computer. I know that phone number is available to our web site. Perhaps the next time you have internet access you can find that number and..."

"No," the man angrily said. "That won't work."

What the hell am I supposed to do now? All sweetness left my voice as I flatly informed the customer I would get a manager to talk to him about his desire to speak to corporate. I put the call on hold and angrily walked to my manager's office.

"Please pick up the call on line one."

My manager looked at me as if I was crazy. Usually my job is to help weed the calls away from managers as much as possible, by deflecting anyone the manager doesn't have to talk to.

"Who is it?"

I stared blankly at him. "Please just pick it up. If I could handle it, I would, but this guy is over my head."

I walked off.

Later, that manager informed me, "You were right. That guy was crazy."

"Well, what did you do?" I didn't understand how to be hospitable in that situation.

My manager shrugged. "I finally hung up on him. Customer service only goes so far into Crazy-Land before you have to turn around and come home."

Sound advice, boss-man. Sound advice.

Beginnings and Endings

"New Years is magical," I slurred on a friend's back porch, casually swigging back my vanilla vodka spiked white tea at 11pm on New Years Eve.

"How do you figure?" asked an old friend from high school, smiling in a very condescending way.

"Well, it's kind of like Mardi Gras. You can do whatever you want tonight, and it doesn't matter. Tomorrow is a new beginning."

"I disagree!" he said. "I can get into a car accident tonight and I will still have to wake up to a wrecked car and court date."

Well, no shit, if you're dumb enough to drive when you've been drinking, which you probably will, I thought, but did NOT say out loud. Flustered and unable to properly articulate a good comeback, I grunted and walked back inside.

"How drunk are you?" Corey asked, eyes wide.

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" I asked. Or rather, I tried to ask, but the question ended in giggles.

In a 21 year old drunken haze, I commented to myself that yes, indeed, New Years was magical, everyone else's opinions be damned. I giggled, talked to myself, hugged people I hadn't seen in years, and told my best friends how much I "really, really, really" loved them, and referred to everyone as "dude" for a bulk of the night. In the morning, I woke up, sobered up, and got back to my life of pretending to be a grown up.

Maybe unlike my old friend, "doing whatever I want" doesn't require the crazy, sick, perverted, or even extreme. And I'm sure that my "wild" New Years Eve was tame by the standards of most of my peers.

And that's fine with me.

At dinner with my friend Daniel last night, I was telling him about my "crazy" night, laughing to myself. He then began to tell me about his which started with "I blacked out from 2am until 7am, but I know from others' stories that I was definitely awake."

Whoa, blacked out? I was asleep by 3am!

Yet again, my life is insanely out of synch with my friends.

And that's fine with me, as well.

So, as we all march to our individual drum beats, I wish everyone a very merry new year. I hope you all grown, live, learn, and experience all you desire. I wish that you have a couple of nights every once in a while filled with your own version of "magic".

And I wish the same for myself.