Friday, November 11, 2011

Rated I For Immature

Well let's just get straight to the point: I turned 21 too soon.

You don't believe me, do you? You're sitting there thinking that I am ready. You're wishing that we were face-to-face right now, as opposed to me here, writing this in your present but my past, and you there, reading this and yearning to tell me I have the maturity of Oprah, the wisdom of Lincoln, the swagger of Wayne. (As in John, not 's World.) I know, I know. But I'm telling you, I'm not ready. I may have the success of Gates, the punctuality of Loonette the Clown, and the determination of the Toxic Avenger, but none of these brilliant qualities matter. I can be The Shit at any age, whether it be 20 or 19 or 2. That's right, 2. I don't even need to be able to talk to be The Shit. I could be walking around in my shit and still be The Shit, but not at 21. You may be wondering why I say this. AND I'M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU.

Reasons I Shouldn't Be 21
(I lied about the whole "not telling you" bit. That in itself could suffice for Reason #1, Compulsive Unamusing Lying, but that one's on the house.)

1) I'm 21 years old now, and still 5 foot 4. I'd like to say I have come to accept it, considering the fact that I've been 5'4" for a good 6 years now; I'd like to say that I have come to accept that a sudden growth spurt is unlikely; I'd like to say that I have come to accept that a bag of Swedish Fish every day will not provide me with my daily vitamins and minerals, but I have not come to accept any of these things. I still buy my pants too long, waiting for that spurt to come, and I continue to believe that Red Dye #40 and Carnauba Wax provide me with all the Potassium and Vitamin C a growing girl like myself needs to get through the day.

(My renewed license says I'm 5'3". If you ever see my license, here are a few things you could say to really impress me):

"Your height on here is wrong. DAMN WRONG."

"You are an ENTIRE INCH taller than 5'3," fuck those ID-making bastards!"

"Holy shit, you've grown so much since this got printed!"

"That 3 must be a worn-down 8."

2) I'm 21 years old now, and am severely intimidated by bars. This used to not be so. Before being 21, I relished in the thrill of going somewhere I wasn't supposed to be, similar to that of sitting in the passenger seat of my own car. The environment feels right, but something is a tad askew. At the illegal age of 20, I had multiple bar stories that I will one day share with you, but at the legal age of 21, I'm at a whopping 0. Perhaps that's only because I got kicked out the last time I tried to drink in a bar...

"Get me a beer!"

"I can't, Natasha. He's going to ID me."

"Yeah, YOU, not ME."

"He's going to ID you, too, if you sees you drinking."

"Pshh. Please. Don't be a pumpkin pansy. Purchase me a pale ale, punk."
(Just recently saw Mr. Popper's Penguins, had to attempt the P-alliteration.)

"Alright, alright."
The bar is approached as 2 beers get ordered. Bartender looks straight to me, that sixth sense they all seem to possess when a child is amongst them, and my Legal Ally returns not empty-handed, but with a beer for himself, and for me, a Coca-Cola.

"A Coca-Cola."

"Yeah, he said he needs to see your ID."

"A Coca-Cola."


"We're about to participate in Karaoke Night, and the only liquid courage I have available is corn syrup? Is that going to convince me that I have the voice of Janis Joplin and the legs of Tina Turner? Are natural flavorings going to give me Joan Jett's attitude and the Big Bottom desired by Spinal Tap? No. They're not. I NEED A BREW, BREH."

"Just sip mine when he's not looking. I'm gonna go to the bathroom real quick."

"Okay, okay."

Four minutes later.



"You drank my beer!"

"I had to drink it real quick while he wasn't looking!"

"I'm going to go get another one."

As the second PBR is sat atop the table, I glance to my left before grabbing the can. Coast is clear. As I tip the lid to my lips, one eye on the bartender the entire time, I see him steal a glance at me. Shit! I quickly put down the can and grab my mother-fuckin' Coca-Cola and start chugging, as if Coca-Cola was my absolute favorite beverage of all time. I even throw in a couple "mmmm's" and "ahhhhh's," but that doesn't stop the Fartsender from strutting on over. I continue to sip my ice-cold cola, exclaiming something along the lines of, "I'm gonna need another one of THESE heavenly-holders of artificially-colored bubbles!" but the Fartsender is nowhere near convinced.

"I'm gonna need to see your ID."

"There's an age limit for caramel-colored sodium?"

"I saw you drink out of that beer."

"No, no, you must be mistaken. That was my good ol' fashioned Cooka-Coola."
I hold up the can next to my face, slightly cock my head, and smile. I considered giving a thumbs up, as well, but decided that was something an intoxicated person would do, so I instead throw up the universal symbol for "Live Long and Prosper."

"I'm still going to need to see your ID."

"I'm not drinking."

"You picked up the beer, looked at me, then put it down when you saw I was looking."


..................... .......................................................................................................... I didn't."

"Yes you did."

"No, I was looking at you, reached for my Coca-Cola, looked back, realized it was someone's beer, put it down, looked to see if you had seen my silly mistake, then continued to sip on my favoritedrinkofalltimeohmygodcoca-colaissogood."

"If I don't see an ID, you're going to have to leave."

"Okay, I have to go out to my car and get it. Then I'll bring it to you."

Fartsender retreats to his homeland as I erratically start to put my things in their pockets, only to take them back out again, ambiguous as to what to do next.

"We're going to have to leave, Natasha."

"Bullshark! Not before I scramble a couple of that yolk-yodeler's eggs!"

"I'm not really sure what that means, but I'll be right here waiting."


Fartsender turns around, shoulders squared off, pecks pushed forward, scowl embedded, brow furrowed, penis tiny, unaware that I am standing there analyzing him head to toe. What, I wonder, will really get to this guy. I mean, REALLY push his buttons? I didn't walk over here to give him some humdrum "Fuck you" accompanied by my middle finger. No, I wanted to do something that would personally attack this guy. I wanted him to feel threatened, intimidated, terrified, and sorry. To sum that all up, I wanted him to feel T.I.T.S.


"I don't have it, I actually just came over here to tell you that I've been here before, and you're the only one who's given me such a hard time."

"I need to see your ID."

"I completely understand; you're afraid of getting in trouble."

"No, I just need to see your ID."

"I understand, I have a boss, too, and I'm not scared of my boss, but I totally understand that you are. You're afraid of getting in trouble, that's absolutely understandable."

"I'm in charge right now."

"Right, but you have a boss you have to answer to, one you're obviously intimidated of, that'sfine, believe me. I feel so much pity for those who are insecure, trust me. I'm not mad at you, you just need to find that inner confidence within yourself to make your own calls."

"I do make my own calls."

He's beginning to fidget a bit, awkwardly avoiding eye contact with me. I must be getting to him. I decide to continue to challenge his manhood. And also lie a little bit.

"I mean, I used to be a bartender, and I didn't care about IDing everyone, because I was comfortable calling my own shots, but you must have a very scary boss, don't you? It's fine,really, not all men can answer to themselves."


And so I left, cursing the Fartsender and vowing to myself that I would return with a vengeance once I turned 21, shoving my renewed license right up his tooter-shooter, yelling things like, "YOU FEEL LIKE A MAN NOW? DO YA? DO YA?!" followed by, "BET YOUR ASS WILL BE BAR-TENDER TOMORROW!"

But alas, it never happened, for as the eve of my birth year crept closer and closer, my urge to be of legal age became smaller and smaller, which brings me to my last reason.

3) I'm 21 years old now, and I spent my birthday bowling and TPing. That's right, I relived my tenth birthday, in which I went bowling, and following that, I bought 6 rolls of toilet paper, drove to someone's house, and threw the toilet paper in the trees, just as I did when I was 12 years old. (Mind you, this was not alone. I'll use toilet paper on my own, but I'm not going to go throw it around in someone's yard on my own.)

In fact, I didn't even buy the toilet paper myself. Someone else bought it.

In fact, I ended up using some of it to piss in a yard, so not even all 6 rolls were used on the house.

By the way - 6 rolls gets you nowhere. It wasn't even long enough to throw in the branches, so I indulged in simply wrapping it around the trunk of the tree, which is incredibly pathetic without even mentioning the fact that this was on my 21st birthday.

It was a calm, innocent birthday, exactly what I wanted. I didn't WANT to go out to a bar and get wasted, I didn't WANT to go into a liquor store and proudly present my newly-legal ID, I didn't WANT to do anything to cause any trouble whatsoever. I just wanted to spend time with my family, a couple close friends, and 6 rolls of toilet paper, and that's exactly what happened.

I also didn't want to get arrested 2 days later.

Unfortunately, that happened, as well.

To Be Continued.


stevebezan said...

If I didn't think LOL was so freak'n stupid looking I would use it multiple times. 39 years later you will treasure that story right alongside your scar. Join the crowd kiddo; my pathetic 21 story. After 4 years being a wasted drunken pretend college kid I joined the Navy. Turned 21 in San Diego, got my free drink at several bars, got so wasted I thought spending the night watching a 24 hour marathon of spaghetti westerns in a theatre that normally did porn was a good idea. Walked back to the base sunday morning because the !@#$%^!#$ bus didn't run on Sundays. Don't ask what happened on my golden birthday 9 years later....
I sympathize with the height. My daughter is 5ft I am not allowed to say how many inches. I used to compliment her on how she appeared taller then I remembered until she gave me THE LOOK and said, "That is both so sad and so lame dad."
Think inversion boots; they work but gravity always wins

Natasha said...

It's odd how alcohol can create so many stories. If only I could share them all...turns out I am actually 5 foot 3, and that I've been lied to for years. You'd think one inch wouldn't make that much of a difference, but OH, how it does. At least you didn't tell your daughter she was 5'1" only to let her in on the truth years later. "There is no Santa, and you're actually a flat 5 feet." You would have gotten more than THE LOOK for that one!

I hate writing out any type of laughter. I'm guilty of the "hahaha" but that's only because I'm still working on an alternative.