11:30 P.M.—JUST A SMALL-TOWN GIRL, BORN AND RAISED IN SOUTH DETROOOOOOOIT!
11:45 P.M.—Why’d I punch you? Becaushe itsch a game! STEEEEEEVE PERRRRY! Now get me anodder drink! Itsch my birschday! Oh. Well then it feels like my birschday!
12:00 A.M.—Mike Alstott walks by. He’s in town with a bunch of NFL dudes who’ve been standing next to us all night. I introduce myself, figuring he’d like to know that I’m the dischtin destingjus destiningush I won a major award! Then I tell him he made out with my friend Sloane back in the day. He can’t recall. “Oh, itsch all right,” I assure him. “She made out with a lot of people.”
12:30 A.M.—HOLD ON TO THAT FEEEEEEEEEELIIIIIN!
1:00 A.M.—Letsch throw gang symbols so everybuddy thinksch we’re tough! Lake Forest represent! Our colors are pink and spray tan!
1:30 A.M.—STREETLIGHTS, PEOPLE! OOOOOOOOOOH!
2:00 A.M.—And thus begins the random Hugging of the Strangers.
2:30 A.M.—Form a human toll bridge and stop all the undergrads trying to leave to explain what makes me a distinguished alumna. And that I have two hundred dollars. They are less “impressed” and more “fucking terrified.”
2:40 A.M.—Fletch notices I’m eating stray pieces of popcorn off the table and decides it’s time to drag me back to the Union. But before I go, Joanna insists I smuggle a beer pitcher out to commemorate this momentous night. Because I carry a mom-purse, this is exceptionally easy. I make elaborate plans to house this pitcher right next to my engraved Distinguished Alumni award.
2:45 A.M.—I leave, but not before announcing to the population at large that I’m returning to the Pi Phi house where I live because I’m totally twenty-one and who is this old perv dragging me out of the bar? WOOOOO! TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS!! STEEEEEEEEVE PERRY!
2:46 A.M.—Fletch refuses to take me to La Bamba, while muttering something about my being a handful.
2:51 A.M.—Face-plant across the bed, in full jewelry, shoes, and makeup.
8:00 A.M.—I wake up to discover that I am not, in fact twenty-one, and neither is my liver.
As we have to get back home to attend to other business, there’s no time to hit the Triple X, home of the best biscuits and gravy in the world and, outside of the La Bamba burrito, the only known hangover remedy.
As the room spins and dips, I realize I’m not going to make it without some Starbucks. I’m suddenly very glad the powers that be paved paradise and put up a coffee shop. Oh, Starbucks, I will never doubt you again.
On the way to pick up the car, I pass the Pulitzer Prize winner and note that she does not smell like a fraternity party.
I do not distinguish myself in the parking garage trash can, but it’s touch and go there for a minute. Now that is the true and fitting end to my illustrious college career.
And despite the shame (and nausea), I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
Plus I still have two hundred dollars.
I’m claiming this in the win column.
Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:
The biggest benefit of not being twenty-one anymore means you’re not twenty-one anymore. Embrace this fact… or face the worst drive home ever.
E·P·I·L·O·G·U·E
OCTOBER 21, 2011
DEAR READER,
AS I MAKE THE FINAL EDITS ON MY MASTER MANUSCRIPT FOR THIS BOOK, OUR WORLD IS IN CHAOS.
BOOMERS AND MILLENNIALS ALIKE ARE IN THE MIDST OF OCCUPYING WALL STREET, THROWING THE LARGEST TEMPER TANTRUM OUR NATION HAS SEEN TO DATE, PEEING IN THE STREETS, AND INHIBITING COMMERCE IN THE SMALL BUSINESSES DOTTING ZUCCOTTI PARK. MEANWHILE, THOSE OF US IN GENERATION X ARE JUST TRYING TO MEET OUR DEADLINES. (WHETHER OR NOT I SUPPORT THEIR MESSAGE IS IRRELEVANT. THE MINUTE THEIR DRUM CIRCLE WOKE UP PEOPLE WHO PAY RENT AND HAVE TO GET UP EARLY FOR WORK, I DECLARED SHENANIGANS.)
IF AND WHEN WE PULL OUT OF THIS COUNTRY’S FINANCIAL MESS—AND I BELIEVE WE WILL— I GUARANTEE YOU IT’S MY GENERATION WHO’LL BE LEADING THE CHARGE TOWARDS SANITY AND COMPROMISE.
ALSO, WE LOST ELECTRICITY AGAIN TWO DAYS AGO, BUT FEAR NOT, FOR WE HAD A GENERATOR. WE HAVEN’T HAD THE WHOLE-HOUSE ONE INSTALLED YET, BUT WE HAD THE FORESIGHT TO PURCHASE A SMALLER, GAS-POWERED MODEL. IT’S NOT EVERYTHING WE WANTED, BUT IT WAS EXACTLY WHAT WE NEEDED. [Of course the power came on ten minutes after we finally assembled the damn thing, but that’s neither here nor there.]
IN ADDITION, THE CAPS LOCK ON MY KEYBOARD BROKE A MINUTE AGO AND THIS MANUSCRIPT IS DUE TODAY.
SO I FOLLOW THE LESSON THAT NO ONE UNDERSTANDS BETTER THAN MEMBERS OF GENERATION X…
I LEARN TO ADAPT.
XO,
JEN
A·C·K·N·O·W·L·E·D·G·M·E·N·T·S
Learning how and when to say thank you is a key element to becoming a full-fledged adult, so here goes:
Maybe it’s a little out of traditional order, but first I have to thank Anthony Ramondo and the rest of the art department for creating my favorite cover since Bitter. Home run, people. Total home run.
A million thanks go to my editor, Tracy Bernstein, for raising the bar. Knowing you’d be reading the manuscript made me push myself and I’m so pleased with what we’ve done together. Additional, heartfelt thanks go to Kara Welsh and Claire Zion for embracing my vision in seven books and counting. And Craig Burke and Melissa Broder? You’re the hardest-working publicists in the business. All of you (plus sales and marketing and production) are my Dream Team.
I’d be nowhere without my family of choice—Stacey, Gina, Tracey, Caprice, Joanna, Angie, Wendy, Blackbird, and Poppy. You guys are my inspiration and you make everything more fun! (Except possibly driving.) (Listen, I’m sorry, but the GPS lady is very stern so I’m obligated to defer to her if there’s a question.) (Also, I have shitty night vision, and if the speed limit says fifty-five, then I’m going forty-five just to be sure.) (This has no bearing on my thanks, yet I want to have this on record so you don’t mutiny again like that time we went to Wendy’s house.) (Luff you!)
Karyn Bosnak, you get your own paragraph because that’s
