Clearly, I Didn't Think This Through : The Story of One Tall Girl's Impulsive, Ill-conceived, and Borderline Irresponsible Life Decisions (9781101612255) Read online

  “I have plenty of direction,” I protested. “What can I say? I’m trying my best. It’s hard out there with the economy what it is. No one is hiring. No one. I’ve looked. Believe me, I’ve looked.”

  “Have you thought about temping again?” my father suggested, as if he were suddenly channeling a high school guidance counselor.

  “Dad, we’ve gone over this a million times: Temping kills my soul. I’m terrible in offices. I’m not cut out for them. For one thing, I hate office casual clothes. I look like an asshole in khakis. Everyone knows that.” Sarah scowled at me over the monitor for swearing. “Oh, sorry, baby. I mean, I look like a dork in khakis. I hate getting up early. And really, humans weren’t made to spend their lives in a windowless office, toiling away on a computer. It’s not natural.”

  “You’re on your computer all day! That’s all you do!” Mom pointed out.

  “Yeah, but I’m working on my own projects, not a mindless, pointless exercise for some middle manager somewhere. It’s different. Is this what you want for your daughter? To be unhappy?”

  “Have you thought about taking a job at the post office? Supposedly, they have excellent benefits.”

  “Dad, I’m not going to work at the post office. That’s probably the dumbest thing I’ve heard all day. For one thing, I don’t like wearing shorts. I hate getting paper cuts. And you know that I burn easily in the sun. I’ll figure something out soon, I promise.”

  “We put you through Barnard for this?” he grumbled, turning his attention back to his laptop. He likes to toss this out from time to time, just to remind me that I’m not living up to my potential.

  “I’m just worried that you won’t meet someone nice the longer you put this off,” my mother said, wringing her hands.

  “Mom, I meet plenty of guys. I’m not worried about that.”

  “What kind of guys are you meeting, Anna? Jewish ones? With nice jobs?”

  “Okay, Mom. You got me: I go out with Satan-worshipping homeless orphans. What do you think? I meet normal guys with normal jobs. Once again, don’t worry about it. “

  “Yes, but do they all have to be so short?” She said it like an accusation, like I only date short guys to piss her off.

  “Mom! We’ve been over this a million times, too: I like short guys. No, wait. I love short guys. I always have and I always will. If I were marching in a parade, I’d shout: ‘I’m here, I’m into short guys, get used to it.’ Why is everyone picking on me today? I’m not such a terrible person. I mean, it could be worse. I could have a heroin addiction or be pregnant and not know who the father is.”

  “Why would that even be an issue?” Rachel asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been watching a lot of The Maury Povich Show lately. Honestly, everyone, things aren’t so bad in the scheme of things. Can we take a second and get some perspective on this?”

  “Why don’t you try online dating, like your sister Sarah? It worked for her.” My mom thought online dating was the answer to everything. She had never done it, which is probably why she was so enthusiastic about it. One hour wading around on OkCupid would’ve changed her tune on that. Between the freaks and geeks, it was a war zone in there.

  “Everyone, we’ve been through this, too. I’m terrible at online dating. I have enough anxiety trying to date guys I see in person; I don’t need to add stressful, boring coffee dates to the mix. I don’t even want a boyfriend right now. Besides, you need money to date, and until my blog takes off, well, let’s just say that I’m watching what I spend.”

  “You mean you’re watching what we spend,” Dad joked.

  “Well, you guys are doing great work supporting both the local Philadelphia breweries and several South Philly Mexican restaurants through me. I’m sure that they appreciate your business. Is there anything else about my lifestyle you’d like to attack? We haven’t even talked about the fact that I still sleep with a stuffed animal. Wanna call the cops about that, too?”

  My father closed his eyes and massaged his temples. My mom sighed heavily.

  “Listen, everyone, I hear what you’re saying. I don’t have my shit together yet. I have no job, no boyfriend, and no plans. If there’s nothing else to add, then I’m going to go upstairs to take a shower and wash this dog drool out of my hair because it’s crusty and it’s grossing me out. So, are we good here?”

  My parents both nodded and reluctantly murmured yes. The dog barked because she always barks. The baby gurgled because she doesn’t really know how to talk yet. My father went back to ignoring the situation and concentrating on his bulky computer with the sticky keys.

  “Guys, don’t look at it like you have a thirty-three-year-old living with you. Just pretend that you’ve gained two sixteen-and-a-half-year-olds.” Mom laughed at that.

  “From now on, will you just let us know if you’re not coming home? Shoot over a text or something,” she said.

  “All right. Deal. Now, what’s for lunch because I’m starving.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Your Place or Your Place?

  This all started because last night, my friend Alvin invited me over to his house to play board games. The text he shot over read:

  You + me + other people + beers + board games = fun. 7 pm Friday night at my house. You in?

  I waited two seconds before I replied:

  Hell fucking yes!

  I was pumped to go. I hadn’t gone out during the week in what seemed like an eternity. It’d be a nice break from my usual routine of watching TV and clicking around on a computer. Real live human interaction with my peer group? Sure, let’s do it. Game nights are always a good time. That’s practically a fact. What better way to feel like a carefree young’un than by tossing some dice or shuffling a deck of cards with good company? It’s about as wholesome as you can get; it’s practically a slice of Mom’s apple pie via an Evite link. Personally, I love a good game night, and I’ve never turned an invitation down. Why should I? It’s practically free fun.

  Alvin lived in Fishtown, which is a neighborhood in North Philadelphia in the process of being gentrified. All the artsy kids were moving in and setting up community gardens and cramped coffee shops with rickety wooden chairs. You know the drill.

  I’d been to Alvin’s house once before when he had a Memorial Day barbecue last summer. He was dating my friend Tia so I popped in on a whim. From what I remembered, it was a great party. His backyard patio was illuminated by strings of colored Christmas lights that cast a lovely glow over everything. I kissed a dude named Dudley at the end of the night on Alvin’s front porch. Dudley asked if I wanted to go back to his place two blocks away, right by the beer distributor, but he accidentally belched right in my face while he was in the middle of propositioning me. I must’ve been downwind because I got a faceful of his beer burp. I waved my hand a bit to disperse the noxious cloud while he slurred an apology, but the damage had been done. The mixture of his Budweiser burp with the humid summer air made me want to run home and squirt Purell all over my body. Yeah, I turned him down. Sorry, Dudley.

  Also from what I remember, Alvin was a great host, circulating around the party to make sure everyone was having a good time. At one point during the night, he tried to breakdance in the middle of his living room, which I thought was pretty cool. I had run into him a few times since then, and I was excited that he’d thought to invite me to his game night. We had a few friends in common and—I’m not going to lie—I was excited to get out of my parents’ house for the evening.

  I swung by Alvin’s place at seven P.M. on the dot because I’m overly punctual. He greeted me at the door.

  I looked at him standing in the doorway at an adorable 5′7″. He was wearing a red plaid flannel shirt and dark blue jeans, which made him look like a lumberjack. As I leaned in to hug him, I took a whiff of his shirt and I was pleasantly surprised at how lovely it smelled. Creepy girl confession: One of my favorite things about life is going in to hug a guy I like and smelling his clean, crisp T-shi
rt. When I get a nostrilful and it smells like skipping through an Irish meadow on a spring day, I want to high-five myself, high-five him, and high-five his washing machine and dryer.

  I don’t know if he washes his laundry with crack or what (does crack even smell good?), but I cannot get enough. And just knowing that his shirt is going to be in my life for the next two to twelve hours—if it goes well—puts a pep in my step. Let’s put it like this: If a guy’s shirt smells like a corsage on prom night, then I’m going to keep him around as long as possible.

  On the flip side, if a guy has terrible-smelling clothes and I’m bitch-slapped by his B.O. when I go in for a hug, I don’t care how extensive his record collection is, how many funny videos he forwards to me while he’s at work, or how cool his sneakers are; he has a zero percent chance of making it past a third date. Them’s the breaks! It’s “clean shirt or bust” up in here.

  There have been a few rare occasions when a guy smells like nothing, and that really throws me off my game. I’ll be in his closet sniffing his sweaters when he leaves the room to pee. I’m like Scully rifling through his X-Files. Why doesn’t this guy smell like anything? Is he a ghost? Am I on a date with Powder? I get all existential about it. If his shirt doesn’t smell like anything while it’s on his body, was the shirt even on?

  But Alvin? Goddamn! I wanted to package his shirt’s scent and pop it in the wall as my air freshener. I wanted to snuggle up in his armpit and hang out for a little while. Maybe build a pillow fort with his shirt as the roof. Maybe just lie around and finish a crossword puzzle, stopping every few minutes when I’m trying to think of a word to roll over and catch a whiff. It was like catnip to me.

  I was surprised that we hadn’t hooked up yet because now that I got a good look at Alvin, he was totally my type. In both looks and personality, he was a solid guy. His body was shaped like a mug of beer: thick everywhere from top to bottom. One could describe him as being husky. I mean, he was the catcher on his softball team. Those are the sturdiest guys ever by nature. I normally don’t go for guys my friends have dated, but they only dated for two weeks over a year ago and she ended it because he was too short for her. I was sure she wouldn’t mind if I took a crack at him.

  “Welcome to my humble abode.” He made a sweeping gesture, one a wizard might make.

  “Yeah, man. Thanks for having me.”

  “Come in, come in.” As I stepped inside, I ran smack into the handlebars of his bike, which was leaning against the wall of his foyer. I instinctively clutched my purse because it felt like the bike was trying to pick my pocket as I walked to the living room.

  “Ooh! Watch your step,” he warned, but it was already too late; his bike was attacking me. The handlebars—or, as I like to call them, the ovary-impalers—jabbed at me as I squeezed by. The pedals stabbed at my shins like a teensy ninja. Seriously, fuck this fucking bike in his fucking hallway.

  I know there’s nowhere else to stash the thing because we live in a city and it’d probably get stolen in about half a minute if he locked it to a tree outside, but it doesn’t mean that I should have to endure this pat down courtesy of his ten-speed.

  “It’s fine. I got it,” I said, scooting past as quickly as possible. I had to suck in my stomach for a split second to make it past.

  Aside from the bike feeling me up in the hallway, his house was exactly as I’d remembered it. It was definitely a dude’s house. There was clunky, dusty artwork that looked like it’d been salvaged from a yard sale nailed to the dark red walls. Stacks of records were lined up against one side of the wall where the stereo was set up. He had a large, brown sofa that you could tell from across the room was going to be a comfortable seat. And he had a few wooden chairs fanned out as auxiliary seating for the game night crowd.

  Then, like the cavalry charging from the distance, came the clickity-clack of several sets of paws running full-speed toward me. Before I knew what was happening, three boisterous dogs surrounded me and acted like they lived to shove their nose in my bathing suit area. A trio of cold noses plunged into my crotch like I had stashed Beggin’ Strips in my Levi’s. If these dogs were on Facebook, I’m positive that they’d list “smelling strangers’ crotches” in their interests. If they subscribed to magazines, I’m sure that they’d subscribe to Crotch Aficionado Monthly. They certainly didn’t hide their enthusiasm that I was there.

  Thanks to my catlike reflexes, I was able to block their torpedo noses with my hands as Alvin yelled and clapped loudly, “Come on, get down. Chopper, Zeke, Matilda: Leave her alone.” None of those dog names rolled off the tongue easily, but they seemed to fit such a motley crew of four-legged beasts perfectly. They were mutts, so I had no idea what kinds of dogs they were, but they were the kinds that loved crotches, apparently.

  Alvin came over and yanked them off me, grabbing their collars as they scratched at my legs. Streams of drool poured out of their mouths, streaking my jeans with glistening saliva.

  “Go on, get on your beds!” he yelled. The scampered away without protest.

  “I’m so sorry about these guys,” Alvin apologized. “They’re animals.”

  I tried to wipe the drool off my pants, but it just smeared around more. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, making a face at the slime on my legs.

  “Here, let me take your stuff.” I handed him my coat and purse, which he stashed in his closet out of reach of the mutt circus. Then, I handed him the six-pack of beer I’d brought. His face lit up as he took the beers back to the kitchen to toss in the fridge.

  “Wait! I’ll have one.” I reached over and plucked a bottle out of the pack and twisted off the cap. After being attacked by both a bike and a pack of wild animals, I needed a beer.

  A bunch of people came after me, all bundled up in turtleneck sweaters and wool cardigans. After watching the rest of his guests get mauled by the hyper dog parade, Alvin herded us into his living room with a “Let’s get this party started already!”

  He stood in the center of the room with his arms full of colorful board games. He plopped them down on the coffee table as we all looked on.

  “Okay. We’ve got Apples to Apples, Cranium, Monopoly, and a few editions of Trivial Pursuit. Which one do you guys wanna play?”

  After a quick deliberation, we decided on Trivial Pursuit, 90’s Edition. I had never played it before, so I was excited to test my nineties knowledge. I took a pull from my beer as I looked around the room. It felt lovely to sit around with some buddies for game night. We should really make this a regular thing, I thought.

  I was also having a great time flirting with Alvin. We played on the same team, so it was us against three other teams of two. I wanted the Kurt Cobain-y game piece so we went with that. One team took the Palm Pilot one. One team took the computer monitor with dot.com on it. The last team begrudgingly played the cappuccino game piece. Each team was given a small plastic brown wheel. As you answered questions from different trivia categories correctly, you received a colored plastic wedge, with the color corresponding to the trivia category. Once your brown wheel filled up with all the colored wedges, you won. After a few rounds, we quickly realized that either we were all gifted geniuses about the 1990s or the questions were too easy.

  • “What sitcom star popularized the Rachel haircut?”

  • “What movie has Billy Crystal say of tough guy Jack Palance, ‘Did you see how leathery he was?’”

  • “What real Seattle band was featured as the rockers Citizen Dick in Cameron Crowe’s film Singles?”

  I could’ve been in a coma during the nineties and answered those questions correctly. Alvin sat next to me on the wooden chairs and our knees touched a few times, which I liked. As we drank more, friendly trash talk between the teams escalated.

  “There’s no way that you know this one. Give it up, dude,” I ribbed this short girl with glasses named Lizzy.

  “The answer’s Pearl Jam, mutherfucka. Booyah! Give me my wedge.” She triumphantly jammed an orange wedge in her
wheel, then high-fived her teammate.

  It was our turn next and our question was a real tough one:

  • “What film suspended production for a year so Tom Hanks could let his hair grow and lose 50 pounds?”

  “You got this one?” Alvin asked me.

  “Totally, The movie’s Cast Away, bitches! Now gimme my wedge.”

  Lizzy confirmed my answer with a nod and placed the trivia card back in the pile. I stood up to grab my orange wedge from a tall skinny dude named Lance who kept the plastic bag of wedges. I even did a little dance as I retrieved it to rub my victory into the other teams’ faces.

  As I sat down in my chair, I heard a loud crack and fell backward to the floor. I had broken the chair. I didn’t just break it; I decimated it. I went full-on Godzilla on the thing. It totally fell apart, like I was Chris Farley in an SNL sketch, which, I’ll admit, did go along with the nineties theme of the night. All the wedges in my stupid wheel went flying onto the carpet. The dogs started freaking out and they ran over to sniff me because that seems like all they ever want to do. Everyone was cracking up while asking if I was okay. I was laughing, too, because what the fuck? I just busted Alvin’s chair and now I was being trampled by a pack of dogs. One of them licked my face, which made me wince.

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry, Alvin. I’ll, I’ll buy you a new one,” I stammered in between batting away their floppy tongues.

  “Don’t sweat it. That chair sucked and it was only, like, ten dollars from IKEA.” He was being a good sport even though he was dying laughing like everyone else in the room. He finally pulled the dogs off me.

  Who breaks a chair like that? What’s wrong with me? Of the top five most embarrassing things you can do in front of a guy you like, breaking a chair must be numbers two through five. I’m not sure what the number one thing would be but I’d imagine it’d be menstruation related. At least I didn’t get my period on the broken chair. That’d be worse.