Sunday Top Ten: Summer Scattergories

TB and I have played a lot of Scattergories this week. I'm adding that to the short list of "games I could beat TB at," along with Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots, Hi-Ho Cheerio and Scene It? ['cause though I probably haven't "seen it," if you will--she definitely hasn't seen it, giving me a distinct advantage, like playing Axis and Allies with George W.] One of Scattergories' highlights is the answers you're a little shamed to reveal. The answers you introduce with: "Um, so I put...." like TB's "Echinacea" as a "Flower," my "Japanese Businessmen" for "Things in an Airport" or my "Homosexuals" as 'Things Found in Pairs or Sets." Or the bad answers we BOTH put: e.g. "Drug Problem" as "Reason to Skip School/Work." We gave ourselves both a point. My new roommate Zoey claims to be the Scattergories Master. We'll get to the bottom of this within the next 7-10 days.

Also: It's getting really hot, and we still have bars in our windows, thus preventing the insertion of mammoth cheap air conditioner, which'll keep me frigid as I avoid the world all summer, per usual.

Summer+Scattergories=

SUNDAY TOP TEN: SUMMER-THINGS
which might be contested were we playing Scattergories, but which I'm quite positive are Correct Answers.

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10. R IS FOR Reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder:

I talk about this every summer, such is the depth of my loathing for this season. In summary, I despise: temperatures over 70°, sticky melted frozen deserts on fingers, insects, steaming hot subway stations, scantily clad pedestrians, The Puerto Rican Day Parade, The Fourth of July, water-parks, public pools, street fairs involving selling food outdoors and death-trap "rides," unsupervised children that ought to be in school, Arctic-quality air conditioning on airplanes, the smell of rotting meat emanating from the corner deli, flip flops, hot rotting garbage on the street, the beach, tourists, shorts, men who whistle at girls in skirts, sunburns, sunscreen, razor-burn.

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9. I IS FOR Interns:

The popular "summer internship" corrals some of our country's most unbearable persons into the city. [e.g. LI Juiceheads prepared to feel subservient for the first time EVER at Goldman Sachs; at night they travel in droves to generic Upper East Side or Union Square-area bars to pick up girls who look like their mothers--crispy-tan, hair shiny and flat as grass--they talk too loudly in restaurants and self-consciously pat their gelled hair, and they will never change, this is who they'll be forever. Only when they get older it'll be more refined, and take up more space.] I've worked three part-time internships during the colder months, but never slugged out The Proper 9-5 Unpaid Summer Kind. Here's the thing about internships: it's a lot of workanyone'd probably resent earning minimum wage for. But, somehow the fact that they refuse to pay you AT ALL WHATSOEVER makes it totally appealing, like it must really be worth it. I mean, there's gotta be a huge payoff if you've gotta COMPETE with other kiddos for the honor of making copies and color-coding binders for free, right? I realistically realized that any full-time internship would be 8 weeks in which to prove to my supervisors that I hate fax machines, which would do little to improve my odds of post-internship employment. Or maybe that's just what I told myself so I didn't have to bother applying to them. I oughtta admit that I was an intern at the lit agency for one day before they put me on payroll as a legit Assistant, which made Krista [3-10pm, M-Fri, Non-Profit Theater Internship, $50 weekly stipend] and Ingrid [10-6, MOMA in Queens, 100% unpaid]'s blood boil. I really loved interning at nerve, and they did provide a little stipend, and "perks." Like being the Hippest Hipster EVER.

Oh and! I interned at US Weekly for about two days, but they grossed me out so I quit. That was during the winter, though.

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8. B is for Beach Bum Tanning Salon:

Because there's a sin to cure every ailment [e.g drinking has always done wonders for my allergies!], tanning totes cures eczema. And the bruises I've acquired from running into everyday objects like tables, chairs, and walls. Camouflage. Below I've posted a photo from Cruise '06. Just 'cause.

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7. L is for Lightheaded

Allergy season begins mid-August. Claritin, Tylenol Allergy-Sinus, Sudafed: That shit fucks me up. This's odd, considering the following: I've popped six Vicadin and then driven my car, had sex, and driven my car back home. I've downed an entire bottle of anti-anxiety pills and like, woke up the next day [I was just really stressed out/coming down off of something vicious, not trying to kill myself, weirdos, obvs I wasn't always the stunning pillar of mental health that stands before you today]. That's just the tip of the iceberg. But allergy medicine gets me all dizzy-like. Thus, I must choose between illness and feeling like my limbs are actually wings and my brain is just a helium balloon. I usually choose the former because it gets me out of stuff. Not work or anything--no one gives a shit--but like, being pleasant company, etc.

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6. G is for Girly

Last year, I wrote: "Girls sometimes wear those silly flowy hippie skirts, and boys sometimes wear cargo shorts. Both of these things make me not want to have sex with anyone ever." Luckily I have a girlfriend now, and I can't imagine her wearing a flowy hippie skirt. Though, if I were to imagine that, it would be a very funny image. Apparently, before an important family event in which she wore a dress, she was told by Father to degangsterize [her] lesbian stride. The original title of this topic was "M is for Men in Shorts" but then I decided that was too mean, and made me sound like a man-hater when I'm totally not AT ALL [Seriously though, what woman prefers men in shorts over men in pants? Aside from like, the girlfriends of basketball players and bicyclists?], so instead I thought I'd talk about how every summer I unleash my inner girl, who wears things like dresses and skirts. With Pumas.

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5. D is for Dunkin' Donuts

I hate their coffee but I heart their iced coffee. AND MAN DO I HEART ICED COFFEE. In the summer, the typically unpleasant Starbucks line becomes literally unbearable [like, I could lose my marbles there, even if they're playing some Goodthinkful music and I'm eyeing a memoir detailing a life about 10,000 times worse than this line could ever be], crowded with tourists and interns looking to cram as much sugar and sugar products into their coffee as possible, via gigantoid mintchocachino frozen whipped creamed caramel latte totesbag whatevers. D2 is cheaper and just as good/bad. All iced coffee is the same. Anyone who says otherwise is wrong.

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4. B is for Black:

I know only pasty Ozzfest-attending goth kids are supposed to don all-black in the summer, but I get really sweaty. Like, everywhere. Thus I recommend black camisoles from H+M. They last about three wearings before falling to pieces, but it's worth it. Disposable tank tops, if you will. Below, Lainy and I, outside of Girl-Nation in August '05, right after we were slammed in the head by an ambitious bouncer breaking into the bathroom. Either I'm still reeling from that event, or I'm like Gilbert! Gilbert! Hey, my shoe done fell off, Gilbert! Match in the gas tank boom boom boom!

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3. I is for Italian Restaurants, the Dark Empty Kind:

This is called "Twice Baked Lasanga with Meatballs." It's good for people who enjoy cardiac arrest and multiple trips to the company restroom. Originally introduced as a special, guests enjoyed this disgusting dish so much it's now on the regular menu.

I put in three summers at The Macaroni Grill [Ann Arbor, Michigan] and two at The Olive Garden [Times Square, NYC]. These aren't summer hot-spots, exactly: both serve 1,500 calorie bowls of Fettuccine Alfredo as a Lunch Entree when clearly it's not intended for consumption prior to performing any sort of activity, EVER, aside from "sitting on your couch" or "sleeping." While the psuedo-family-bar-culture restaurants in Michigan like TGI Fridays would draw crowds hoping for outdoor seating, a.k.a. a great view of the surrounding shopping malls, The Macaroni Grill's crowds remained sparse-to-non-existent. Aside from the occasional blessing of a soccer tournament or Charity Walk, Lizzie and I'd just sit on the wine-boxes and talk about sex [convos generally falling into two categories: 1. regrets, 2. masturbation]. In '00, the air conditioner broke at the OG, and we couldn't fix it [needed a helicopter, apparently? I dunno, Times Square, whatever] and gross sweaty people would complain on how it was soooooo hot and I'd be like "One of us has to be here. And it's not you. Fuckin' run for your life, gluttonous douchebags! Here's your salad refill, p.s.!"

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2. J is for Judaism:

My Mom didn't believe in "normal" summer-camp. There was no point in leaving home if we weren't gonna come back Holy.

Camp Ranana, the local Jewish day camp, totes defeated me; another opportunity to be reminded I wasn't as pretty/cool/"advanced in cup-size" as the other girls, though said girls befriended me always 'cause I told funny jokes.

At Zionist overnight camp, we slept in platform tents and had chores before breakfast, like "No oatmeal 'til you clean the bathrooms, kibbutzim!" I had an affair with the weirdest kid at camp, 'cause he intrigued me; his brother was a transvestite and he'd lost his virginity to his babysitter at 13 [in retrospect: True or False?]. He's probably bi now. Like, legitimately bi. Or else married and on a lot of psychotropics. That was the camp where we re-enacted the holocaust at 3 A.M. ["The Germans are coming! Get dressed and escape!"] and, after traipsing through the woods, playing a series of team-building games before exodus-ing to "The Land of Milk and Honey" at daybreak to cook potatoes over an open fire for breakfast and then I got sent to prison [the tennis courts] for forgetting to carry my passport. L'Chaim!

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1. L is for Lilith Fair:

Raise your hand if you went to the Lilith Fair. Raise your hand if you'd go again.

[Okay, back now. I had both hands raised, and could not type.]

Oh ... it still feels like yesterday ... I can almost taste the pita bread n' hummus and hear the Sarah McLachlan and smell the marijuana and the womyn-on-womyn lovin' ... sweet memories of Magali and I crankin' up the Indigo Girls "Shamin' of the Sun'" in her beat-up non-air-conditioned stick-shift Volvo on 1-94 to Suburban Detroit to sit in the grass in our faux-hippie-gear with our faux-hippie friends, having the realest time we could've ever had at 15 ... youth ... innocence ... summertime ... that was alright. Yeah ... that was alright.

ICHAT:

ME: Hey--did you ever go to the lilith fair?
HAVILAND: obvs. twice, amazing concerts.
HAVILAND: once with shannon and once with sherri
ME: if there was a lilith fair tomorrow, i'd go
HAVILAND: me too
HAVILAND: it was SO incredible
ME: i'd be like "I LOVE YOU TRACY CHAPMAN!!!:
HAVILAND: did u go?
ME: obvs, both years.
HAVILAND: i can't believe it stopped happening
ME: i know!
ME: totally a tease
ME: i guess that's lilith.

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The summer makes me do CRAZY THINGS, 'cause of RSAD:

Actually. Last summer was pretty awesome. Hm.
The Haviland, the Cruise, Williamsburg Wonder Twins, The Reading, Starting This Little Blog, Savannah, Pride, Nyack, Tasti-D, Official Summer Jam "S.O.S"

It's getting chilly now. I f'in love it.