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For the past nine months, we at UTB have been lucky to have our columnist Carlin grace this blog with her wit and wisdom. She graduated with the rest of the class of '09, but we convinced her to bid adieu with one last post. From now on, you can visit Carlin at her new personal blog.
Where would UTB be without Carlin? This week, our campus coquette makes a list and checks it, um, 13 times.
This week, I was bitch slapped –- twice. On Tuesday, my responsible housemate sent out an email reminding friends that it was the last day the seniors could use bursar…forever. I am scared of people-money, especially since I’m hardcore humanities and can thus expect to make said people-money never. This yielded a $200 stress splurge as I stocked up on Penn gear after four years of not purchasing any from the institution: a Not Penn State t-shirt, hats plural, a sweatshirt, and mesh gym shorts that make me look I borrow clothes from my nonexistent boyfriend. Seriously, the one hat I had, I jacked from my little sister who wore it at camp for like a day to brag about me before she remembered who the fuck I was. And it was too small.
Once I ignored CNN and the drug cartels that were actually nowhere near me, Spring Break in Acapulco kicked ass the entire time. The only glitch in my week of SPF 70, boozing and dancing away my feelings (on narrow, elevated surfaces while wearing 4 ½ in heels, mind you) was the six hour layover in Mexico City before sadly getting the Homeland Security stamp in New York. This meant, of course, that while my still-drunk partner in crime repeatedly lapped the airport in search of her pesos, passport, boarding pass, and customs form, I had to stay awake and man the bags in case she needed a translator (I, too, was drunk, which meant that I had become bilingual). I had time to kill, so my mind drifted to the ups and highs of the past week and, as I am your sex blogger, the craft of the perfect spring break hook-up. Believe it or not, it’s a fairly complex formula; that is, if your standards exceed the drunk friend you happened to be fist-pumping to Katy Perry with.
Every couple of months, I swear off men. It usually happens not when I’ve actually been with someone, but when I’ve invested time and energy planning our hypothetical future together. Alas, despite our color-coordinated sweaters, it ends, sadly, with him hooking up with an acquaintance one of my guy friends has been into (see Second Hand Hook Up). I’ve had friends yell at me to “DISENGAGE;” to find faults rather than plan when he’ll meet my parents. This is when I’ll make the public service announcement that I’m done with boys at Penn, only to make out with someone twenty minutes later.
The other day I was standing outside of Fisher Bennett after class debating if I should (a) finally buy a notebook for the classes I am no longer adding or dropping (nodding for two weeks only gets you so far), (b) maintain my meathead pre-spring break mentality and head to Pottruck or (c) ignore both my syllabi and Britney comeback body objectives and disappear into Naked Chocolate for cupcakes until someone notices that all of the pink ones are gone. It was in the midst of this reverie that a TA I had a year ago walked by.
The other night, in a break from the frigidity and classic girl-on-girl rush flirt, two of my housemates brought out lists of everyone they’d ever hooked up with--or at least those they could remember. Agreeing to skip over my own slutty whimsies of middle school (at camp one summer as an act of rebellion for being my improv partner’s beard, I got it on with every straight guy in the spin-the-flashlight circle), since I still had braces, not to mention the ghosts of high school boyfriends’ past, we concluded that our respective lists should focus on the college years, summers included.
On Monday evening, exactly twenty-four hours after I left for my semi-formal, my fourteen-year-old sister called me from the car that my seventeen-year-old brother was driving. As my brother feigned indifference, yet listened intently, I began to summarize how the date went.
As is tradition in the Adelson household, at around 3 o'clock in the afternoon, Thanksgiving Thursday, my mother kicked everyone out of our house except the one other adult who could turn on an oven (I bounced). This became standard back in 1995 when my siblings were still routinely sent to the principal for their unreliable exuberance and for using their very hard heads as weapons, and later, when my young cousins developed a knack for annual stitches and/or throw up: we tried to avoid these mishaps by going to the movies. This year's pick? Bolt.
Since Thursday, I have spent approximately 32 hours in Van Pelt. My breaks were for meals, sleeping, and meetings. Literally. As I read through my text books, made flashcards, wrote two papers, and prepared for presentations that should take me through the Monday after Thanksgiving, I acquired two tics: the instinctive looking up expectantly as I catch any tall boy in my peripheral vision, and--the more embarrassing one--impulsively texting boys from home in anticipation of a weekend of gluttony.
It recently dawned on me that in the past year, every hook-up I’ve had has gone one of two ways: I’m into it, or he’s into it.
On Homecoming Saturday I flirted with the full spectrum of past, present and future. First, I ran into a recent graduate with whom I used to have an infatuation; I later high-fived a guy from class at the ’Pelt, then, that evening rekindled my cougar instincts as I awkwardly introduced myself to the freshman with the voice of an angel, who had read my blog along with all of the Penn Six list serve recipients. Great job Saturday, guys.
Last week I wrote about my Cougar aspirations. In a break that epitomizes my short attention span, I must reveal that I have refocused my desires specifically toward the Wild Cats. Yes, Troy Bolton’s basketball team in the epic trilogy obsession of myself and many, many, many 9-year-olds, High School Musical.
When I was in high school, I dated a younger guy off and on for a couple of years. For the most part, driving him everywhere and calling his mom for permission to go to the movies didn’t get to me, until one day when we were fooling around watching TV. Suddenly, on came the Pokemon theme song. Now, I would not be caught dead watching that show--even to this day, I much prefer quality old school Nicktoons to any anime bullshit (Sorry, D)--so to say it was alarming when my boyfriend squealed with excitement, “oh my god I looooove Pokemon. You’re my Pikachu!,” would be an understatement. When we officially broke up and I hooked up with my first college guy (a senior with a record deal) three days later, I concluded that never again would I rob the cradle. Until now.
For those of you who don’t spend 100% of your internet time on facebook and reading celebrity gossip, political and shopping blogs like me (and I’m kickass), I would like to inform you that the recent Ivy-Graduates-in-San-Fransisco-Constituency, also known as “Team Google” have created a new feature to prevent you from writing drunk emails.
We missed this week's episode of Gossip Girl (do you have it on your TiVo? Call us!), but blogger Carlin Adelson watched it, and she has a few bones to pick. Herewith, a thesis on GG's recent suckitude.
In this very special blog post, Columnist Carlin is back to riff on contraception, hormones, and every college girl's gripping fear of getting preggo.
Remember our sassy columnist Carlin? She's back to narrate a night at Smoke's...through Gossip Girl's eyes.
Please say hello to UTB contributor Carlin Adelson, who writes in to muse on crushes, the end of summer and the ongoing battle between her id and her libido.