Center Stage

Everyone should know I am a very responsible drinker. I love having a keg or four of beer with dinner, mimosas on a Sunday and obviously live and breathe for a good dirty martini. Maybe it’s because I am a complete control freak or because I’m completely vain and don’t want to embarrass myself, but I really never get drunk.  When I hit the clubs in my Bebe bandage dress trolling for a Middle-eastern real estate broker with bottle service and yellow lambo ( I am kidding ew), I am in the pursuit of a steady happy buzz not a Courtney Love downward spiral.

The few times I have been slob kabob wasted I busted a heel on a pair of Louboutins, verbally assaulted someone for cutting me in the bathroom line, got in a legitimate fight with my boyfriend about the band Greenday and on my drunkest occasion did an interpretive dance in front of an entire fraternity. Seriously though, If I was ever on the precipice of life or death and “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” started playing I would willingly take my own life. It’s nauseating, whiney and nasally as FUCK. Let’s lighten the mood and discuss the time I bared my labia to a frat house shall we?

Freshman year of college I was asked to a winter formal. I was pretty nervous about going since I had just met my date and didn’t know what to expect. Also, he was Israeli and those bitches can get REAL handsy. Somehow I worked out scoring invites for some of my girlfriends so it would be a group outing. I was under the impression the guy who asked me was still sitting comfortable in the friend zone and was not looking to progress our relationship any further.  Prior to the shitshow, my legal cousin and I gallavanted to the local Food For Less for $2.99 bottles of Andre. Like I said, college was never my thing and this is what I would consider an ultimate low point. We started popping the Dom  alcohol infused urine around 1pm and by 4:00pm I was white girl wasted. With the help of my friends, paid professionals and a high pressured hose I got myself barely together by 5pm.

Our dates picked us up and we headed for a group sushi dinner. As they approached my dorm, I was almost positive we were accompanying the cast of Superbad to a sad movie premiere. I had pulled some seriously depressing tail back in the day. My date was wearing a fucking vest…a VEST. I chugged the last of the Andre to ease the blow. We went to some ratchet sushi buffet place and I started throwing raw fish at the walls to see if it would stick… it was pretty cute.

After I gracefully breezed through dinner, we headed to the formal. I was expecting to make an entrance down a double staircase with my name announced like they did on the Titanic. “Miss Jackie Schimmel of Westlake Village, CA. Lover of dogs, sequins and well-intentioned racism”. My entrance was a face plant into a plastic folding chair and the horrid realization that the venue had cottage cheese ceilings and the only food was plastic bowls of Doritos. This obviously prompted me to drink more alcohol to cope with all this AND the fact I had wasted one hell of an outfit. My date was all up on my dick. I needed to ditch him immediately, every time he would try and canoodle me I headed straight to the bar and started canoodling with my real date Andre. After my second bottle of the day I decided to really take this formal to the next level.

All of my close friends tease me for never getting drunk. They think it’s because I am neurotic or worried it will disrupt my digestive issues which is all true but the real reason is this; I get really weird. Not in a cute slutty sorority girl way, in a completely insular, solo mission, awkward way. I think something will be “so hilarious”, fully commit to it and then let no one in on the joke. In this situation, I thought it would be totally hilarious to perform an interpretive dance in front of the whole party.

I went behind the DJ booth, told him to turn off the music and grabbed the mic. I sashayed to the front of the dance floor and immediately jolted the guests with the feedback sound from turning on the mic. I demanded the DJ turn off the music. He was scared and obliged, “What’s up A E Pi!!! Who’s having a good time tonight??!!! CAN I GET A WHUT WHUT FOR ALL MY JEWY BITCHES UP IN HURRRR. Everyone if you could please take a seat and clear the dance floor there is a special performance I would like do for you all to thank you for this shitty party. Let’s DO it. Yeyuhhhh!!!” Clearly no one was enjoying my impromptu disc jockey routine.

It’s no secret that I have entitlement issues. I am uncertain how this has trickled into my comfortability with hostage performances for large groups of strangers but I have made a note to ask my therapist. Reluctantly, people started to clear the floor. Being the hospitable lady that I am, I started going into strangers bedrooms wheeling out desk chairs and bringing patio furniture inside so everyone would have a seat. I was going to make this busted frat house the closest thing to Madison Square Garden humanly possible. I dragged people out of sexual escapades, bathrooms and dark corners. No party guest was left behind – it was like a firedrill, everyone needed to be present.

I took center stage (#JodieSawyer) and cued the DJ to play the song I had asked him to. What proceeded next is all a bit blurry. My song selection was the appropriate Armageddon theme song by Aerosmith “I Don’t Want To Miss a Thing” and that irony is not lost on me… From my flashes of memory and debriefing from my loved ones who were present that day, it began with a slow crawl and ended with a leap which sounds super elegant. I even grabbed a stray streamer and had a short but sentimental ribbon dance bit during the bridge. Apparently the DJ tried to phase out the song seeing the sheer horror on my audiences faces and I got back on my mic and screamed “DON’T TURN OFF MY FUCKING SONG. I AM NOT FUCKING FINISHED, THAT’S SO RUDE.” Cute.

I was also wearing a dress that forced me to go to commando so beyond the grand finale split leg leap, there was also an appearance by my vagina. And people ask me why I dropped out of college… The next morning I woke up with bruised arms and a bloody shin which just shows my commitment to the dance. I would walk through campus a sad broken legend and 4 months later I transferred schools and vowed never to drink cheap in excess, go commando or watch Armageddon ever again…


3 thoughts on “Center Stage

  1. Leah B says:

    This story is hysterical BUT I am pretty bummed out that I am never, ever going to maybe run in to you out and about the town and be wasted together. Dreams. Shattered.

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