Read Online You Deserve a Drink: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery by Mamrie Hart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mamrie Hart
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day as prom. How was I supposed to be working out complicated analogies while I was daydreaming about my cornrows/French twist updo combo?
I turned my focus to schools that were in state. I
refused
to go to community college. Listen, there is nothing wrong at all with a good ol’ CC. But I just couldn’t stay in my county anymore. I come from a town with one stoplight, where guys attach metal nut sacks to the back of their trucks as a sign of manliness. Add to that the fact that I had dated most of those nut-sack sporters, and it was game over.
What about the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill?
I thought.
After all, I look super fuckin’ good in light blue.
In classic, responsible Mamrie fashion, it was the only school Iapplied to, and I put my application in the mail literally seconds before the post office closed, on the last day it could be postmarked. Part of this was laziness; the other part was that it was a forty-dollar application fee at the time. These days, I will spend that much on a bottle of blueberry vodka or a novelty pair of jumbo granny panties, but those days? Forget it. That was a double shift at the movie theater.
But the college gods smiled upon me.
Chapel Hill is a Norman Rockwell painting of a four-year university. Lounging under hundred-year-old trees in the quad between classes, throwing keggers in our yard, winning the NCAA championship my senior year. Everything about UNC was perfect, including the girls. Therein lay the problem—the problem of not getting laid. These weren’t just ordinary girls. These girls looked like they had all just walked out of a J.Crew catalog. They were all in sororities, lived in Lilly Pulitzer dresses, and had names like Catherine Louise Vanderbilt Montgomery XI. Meanwhile, I was co-president of Topless Tuesday, wore Poison concert tees, and openly burped in public like I was being possessed by the ghost of a velociraptor.
Luckily for me, my roommates were all normal and not the priss-pots in floral cardigans we’d see on campus. But being normal had its drawbacks. Let’s just say guys weren’t exactly forming lines to date us. Being asked out was borderline impossible for a “normal” girl like me.
While we spent the fall getting dolled up and squeezing into our best velvet pants (it was 2001), by the time Thanksgiving rolled around we all said fuck it. Winter of our freshman year was spent in pajamas in my dorm, mixing up frozen margs and singing the Dixie Chicks into hairbrushes.
We became such hermits that the only time we saw guys was in class or the dining halls. We would have crushes on guys from afar but never actually talk to them.
Did you see Green Hat in the dining hall today? He asked me to quit hogging the ranch dressing. I think we had a moment.
Sadly, I think the picture of Erika and me singing into hairbrushes is actually from Valentine’s Day.
You guys. White Shirt is totally in my philosophy lecture. He sneezed last week, and I was this close to saying, “God bless you.” Dammit, Mamrie! We could be engaged by now.
In our defense, we were screwed from the get-go. Unfortunately, not literally. While other college freshmen were basking in the scandal of living mere feet from the opposite sex, we were left out in the cold. The four of us had all requested a coed hall but were put together in an all-girls academic hall, or the “Virgin Vault,” as it was so aptly called by the rest of the tower. I get that there wasn’t enough coed housing, but putting us all in the same suite didn’t make sense. They put the troublemakers in one place, like when Australia was a penal colony. Why stick us on the same floor as a seventeen-year-old getting her doctorate? Big mistake. We would be taking shots of room-temp raspberry vodka and making up a choreographed dance to Outkast, only to be yelled at by our hallmates:
Girls, seriously. I have heard “Ms. Jackson” on repeat for the last three hours. Can you please quiet
I turned my focus to schools that were in state. I
refused
to go to community college. Listen, there is nothing wrong at all with a good ol’ CC. But I just couldn’t stay in my county anymore. I come from a town with one stoplight, where guys attach metal nut sacks to the back of their trucks as a sign of manliness. Add to that the fact that I had dated most of those nut-sack sporters, and it was game over.
What about the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill?
I thought.
After all, I look super fuckin’ good in light blue.
In classic, responsible Mamrie fashion, it was the only school Iapplied to, and I put my application in the mail literally seconds before the post office closed, on the last day it could be postmarked. Part of this was laziness; the other part was that it was a forty-dollar application fee at the time. These days, I will spend that much on a bottle of blueberry vodka or a novelty pair of jumbo granny panties, but those days? Forget it. That was a double shift at the movie theater.
But the college gods smiled upon me.
Chapel Hill is a Norman Rockwell painting of a four-year university. Lounging under hundred-year-old trees in the quad between classes, throwing keggers in our yard, winning the NCAA championship my senior year. Everything about UNC was perfect, including the girls. Therein lay the problem—the problem of not getting laid. These weren’t just ordinary girls. These girls looked like they had all just walked out of a J.Crew catalog. They were all in sororities, lived in Lilly Pulitzer dresses, and had names like Catherine Louise Vanderbilt Montgomery XI. Meanwhile, I was co-president of Topless Tuesday, wore Poison concert tees, and openly burped in public like I was being possessed by the ghost of a velociraptor.
Luckily for me, my roommates were all normal and not the priss-pots in floral cardigans we’d see on campus. But being normal had its drawbacks. Let’s just say guys weren’t exactly forming lines to date us. Being asked out was borderline impossible for a “normal” girl like me.
While we spent the fall getting dolled up and squeezing into our best velvet pants (it was 2001), by the time Thanksgiving rolled around we all said fuck it. Winter of our freshman year was spent in pajamas in my dorm, mixing up frozen margs and singing the Dixie Chicks into hairbrushes.
We became such hermits that the only time we saw guys was in class or the dining halls. We would have crushes on guys from afar but never actually talk to them.
Did you see Green Hat in the dining hall today? He asked me to quit hogging the ranch dressing. I think we had a moment.
Sadly, I think the picture of Erika and me singing into hairbrushes is actually from Valentine’s Day.
You guys. White Shirt is totally in my philosophy lecture. He sneezed last week, and I was this close to saying, “God bless you.” Dammit, Mamrie! We could be engaged by now.
In our defense, we were screwed from the get-go. Unfortunately, not literally. While other college freshmen were basking in the scandal of living mere feet from the opposite sex, we were left out in the cold. The four of us had all requested a coed hall but were put together in an all-girls academic hall, or the “Virgin Vault,” as it was so aptly called by the rest of the tower. I get that there wasn’t enough coed housing, but putting us all in the same suite didn’t make sense. They put the troublemakers in one place, like when Australia was a penal colony. Why stick us on the same floor as a seventeen-year-old getting her doctorate? Big mistake. We would be taking shots of room-temp raspberry vodka and making up a choreographed dance to Outkast, only to be yelled at by our hallmates:
Girls, seriously. I have heard “Ms. Jackson” on repeat for the last three hours. Can you please quiet
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