COACHELLA: DAY 2

I was our bedroom's alarm clock for Coachella -- Day 2.  I think I was sneezing about 30 times in the span of a minute.  I really don't know how my people managed 40 years in the desert without Afrin -- maybe that's the true struggle we should be remembering.

I left with two friends to pick up breakfast and do a Starbucks run.  I ventured out looking prettttty much like death, in an XXL Redskins tshirt, Capri running pants, and sneakers with laces untied.  I think people who saw me had the first thought of "What in God's name...?" and then saw the ubiquitous neon bracelet indicating I paid much too much money to abuse myself for an entire three days, and thought "Ahh, yes, another dumb white girl."

After bfast, I requested we stop at 7-11 to find appropriate headgear   I'm not talking Native American headdress -- there were probably more kids wearing those, than the number of Native Americans who actually deserve the honor of wearing such a piece.  What I needed required one thing: Maximum sun coverage.  "I'm really just looking for something 'migrant labor-y,'" I informed my friends.  Lo and behold, a beautiful straw hat with a brim large enough to accommodate manual tasks under the hot sun all day, was on the top of the 7-11 hat rack.  I tried it on, and it was really a match made in a retirement community.

Dreamweaver -- is literally whoever crafted this hat.

Back at the house, I decided it was time to venture into the pool.  I slapped on my emerald green Mrs. Robinson one-piece and topped off my Blanche Devereaux look with my new straw chapeau.  One friend stretched a volleyball net across the pool -- creating a makeshift court, and in my attempt to gracefully get on the pool lounge mat I collided with the net and went underwater.  Hat -- RUINED!  (For the day.)  Sadly, I had to set it aside to dry, and moped, knowing I'd have to remember to constantly reapply my 100+ facial sunscreen.  But, to make up for that devastating loss, my friends returned from downtown Palm Springs with a pool noodle!  For me!  Friendship's the best.

In the pool, I noodled over to another friend, who reported what I missed that evening.  She told me that as the medics were interrogating us, they all sat at their picnic table watching.  One friend's lollipop kicked in full-force and she told me all he could focus on was that he couldn't see our faces, but knew we must be super high, and that there was potentially some danger in us speaking with "officials."  After the medics took my friend away, I approached their table to give them the update, and my friend asked me, intensely, "How are you?  How're you doing?  You OK?"  I didn't realize he NEEDED to hear me say, "Uhhh, yeah?" in order to convince himself, HE would in fact be OK.

My friend then informed me that her lollipop kicked in later that night.  This friend is a huge musicphile and Passion Pit is one of her favorite bands.  She said when she got to their show, she didn't recognize one song, and her mind could only process the music note by note, so every song was unintelligible   Passion Pit played a full set, and she had no idea who the band was.  She also told me that her sense of time was totally shot.  "I definitely had an hour's worth of life experience and then I'd look down at my phone, and it had been 3 minutes..."  She and her boyfriend would be speaking and she'd interrupt the conversation, asking "How long has it been since we started talking?"  He'd respond with "Umm, like 45 seconds?"  And her reactions would be along the lines of "OK.  Great.  Great.  OK.  That's good to know.  Thank you."  She also asked, in between acts when they played filler music -- "What genre of music is this?"  To which her boyfriend would reply "Like trance house dance music?"  "Ahh, OK.  I'm not really familiar with that genre, thanks."

So I basically poisoned all my friends.

After lunch, we had a fantastic game of volleyball.  I didn't keep score, but I'm pretty sure we lost.  This was despite my bringing my 7th grade, A-team volleyball skills.  I blame our loss on lack of communication and the fact that one player wouldn't get off the inflatable turtle.  You know who you are.  You know.  I could have stayed in that pool all day.  I even suggested that we bring out a laptop, go to the Coachella live-stream on YouTube, and float in the pool all day/night.  I'm convinced people just pretended not to hear me.

As we were getting dressed in our pool house suite, one of my friends told me about her night.  She committed to a plate of "Crab Fries," (which I'm assuming are french fries with crab on top).  Unfortunately the fries didn't commit to her, and she ended up throwing up in a porta-potty -- a horror I would wish upon any Kardashian.  "So will you attempt to eat them again tonight?"  "Oh, absolutely."  If there are any advertisers reading this who have "Crab Fries" as a client, here it is: "Crab Fries.  They're worth it."  And you are welcome.

This plate is more S&M than Rihanna.

Speaking of edibles, that was the item of choice on Day 2.  A rice krispie treat and a Key Lime Pie-esque baked good were shared by a few members of the group.  One friend announced, in all seriousness, that he wanted to "take the lollipop challenge."  1.  The result of Day 1's medicating was so severe that he had to refer to the consumption as a "challenge."  2.  He was 100% serious.  I questioned him -- "Are you TOTALLY sure?  I mean someone ended up in the medical tent, another person had severe paranoia, and another couldn't process music or time."  "I'm totally sure."  This guy was not kidding around.  Kind of like when he'd spike the volleyball at people's faces, which is an admirable strategy.  So off he went with a lollipop.

We got dressed and went on our wat to the polo fields.  If you want to know what the shuttle/security line was like -- just read about Day 1.  As we're waiting in line, we got a GroupMe text that read "Molly down at the first check-in  :(  Be stealthy."  My first thought was: "Who's Molly?  Do we know a Molly?  Will she be OK?  I should drink more water, dehydration is seriously no joke!"  And then saw one of my friends standing at the Sheriff's tent.  Ahhh.  Molly down, 5-0 all up in my friend's business.  Seriously.  Because those pills were in a place where the sun don't shine -- unless you're twerking at a Major Lazer show (more on that further down).  They ended up letting him go, but keeping his stash.  FUCK THE POLICE.  Actually if they were smart, they would just re-sell all the confiscated drugs for like 4x the suburban street value to kids in line.  My friend's boyfriend was frisked in line and was asked "You got any drugs?"  "No."  "Pot, cocaine?"  "No."  "Heroin, poki-balls?"  "No.  Wait, what's a poki-ball?"  Kids these days scare me.

We walked that long path to security, which some people didn't have the strength for -- hence the numerous pedi cabs up and down the road.  After getting through security, I was so distracted trying to find everyone and seeing if my friend managed to break out of Coachella Jail, that I must have missed the pedi cab driver who TURNED INTO ME.  I walked the rest of the way with a tire mark down my left calf and this monologue in my mind:

Much like your Grandma or Grandpa on an outdoor patio, The priority was finding a seat in the shade.  We sat on the grass under a tent in the beer garden, and I met up with a friend from high school.  Crazy -- 9 years at an all-girl's private school and look at us now, at Coachella!  I think that's what you'd get if you played Drake's "Started from the Bottom" backwards.  In the tent, I took out something that resembled a marijuana cigarette, but I can neither confirm or deny the contents of the item.  I will say this -- here's a picture of me a few minutes later:

A picture is worth 1000 words (that I don't really have time to type b/c I'm at work.)

As I was sitting there, fully enjoying life, able to tolerate the crowds, I noticed a random guy talking/flirting with one of my friends on the other side of our circle.  He was holding an inflatable small bird, and kept asking her what is was.  "A Kiwi."  I responded.  I knew I was right, but somehow he must've not heard me scream.  "It's a Kiwi.  You're holding a Kiwi."  She guessed, and guessed, and still the correct answer eluded her.  He'd smile and laugh, teasing her.  "IT'S A FUCKING KIWI.  It's a fucking Kiwi."  Finally, he explained, "It's a Kiwi."  I was livid.  I knew it was a Kiwi.  Like that one time at trivia I was the only one who knew "Three Dog Night" was a band from the 60s/70s, not the 90s/00s.  I think that's the angriest any of my L.A. friends had ever seen me.  So, I just kept staring down this neon wayfarer-wearing dude, playing with his inflatable Kiwi (no euphemism-o), muttering things to myself like "Fuck you, I knew it was a Kiwi, who do you think you are?  You're nobody.  You're a nobody holding a Kiwi."  And then finally declared out loud "I don't like that guy over there and I want him to leave.  He should go.  Go away."  It's apparently not all fair in love and factual questions.

After the far too brief sit, my friend and I decided to go to Major Lazer.  By "decided to go," I mean me announcing -- "IF THERE'S ANYONE I PAID TO SEE, IT'S THEM, AND WE'RE GOING."  We made our way to the packed tent, which was so crowded we ended up in the spillover crowd right outside.  The crowds were pushing so hard that any contact with my backpack sent me bumping into the people to the right and left.  So I decided to flip it around, making me look pregnant with the North Face's child.  Boyyyy was I boppin'.  I was swaying, I was jumping, I was pointing, I was clapping, I was doing any and every gerund you can think would be appropriate at a Major Lazer show.  No.  Not twerking.  My friend put it best -- "I actually think it's embarrassing if you're really good at twerking.  Because everyone knows you've been at home practicing in front of a mirror for hours and hours."  If you're not familiar with this dance "move," please check out Diplo's instagram and it will instantly be clear.

  

I vaguely remember my friend telling me she was going to go to the bathroom, but I was entranced by the music (and most likely other factors that rhyme with the word "pugs").  She left me dancing alone.  I was really working that back/frontpack, incorporating it in all my moves to the point where I looked like I was partaking in a pagan ritual, attempting to invoke the Lord of Light from "Game of Thrones."  She managed to later find me in the crowd, and after their set was done, asked "You want mango, don't you?"  I did.  Seriously the mango sorbet in a mango was the highlight of the trip.  Seeing my friends was too, I guess.

We got our sorbet and parked it at a picnic table under a tent, then looked at each other, slowly spooning frozen fruit goodness into our mouths, thinking the same thing.  "Do we really have to get up?"  After zombie brain-eating my mango skin bowl, I decided we should see Hot Chip.  On our way to the main stage I almost walked into what looked like a wall.  I stepped back and squinted my eyes, thinking that would help me see better in the dark.  I asked my friend -- "OK.  Is this thing moving really, really slowly?," while debating if I was in fact all there mentally.  "Yeah, duh, it's a snail."  I stepped back to see the entire structure -- a HUGE motorized snail moving at about 0.5 mph.  When it passed, we saw a slimy bubble trail representing the snail goo.  If only people spent this much effort on things that... matter.

We got to the main stage for Hot Chip, who were AWESOME.  One of my favorite acts of Coachella.  If you're not familiar, listen here:

Up next was The Postal Service.  I don't know, they sounded just like the Postal Service.  Whaddya want from me?  I decided during their set I should maybe smoke some more of what may or may not be a totally legal item (with proof of medical need) in the state of California.  Maybe.  A few minutes later I realized I may or may not be too high, and leaned my head back looking at the sky.  Lucky for me, the Postal Service decided to incorporate Klieg lights in their performance, and I spent the next 15 minutes or so staring at the convergence and divergence of beams in the night sky.  Who knew that could be so entertaining?  At least thousands of other people in the crowd, I'm assuming.

These are Klieg lights.  I just got you an inevitable trivia point in the near future.

After the Postal Service, my friend and I decided it was time to head back and get a reasonable amount of sleep.  We went back to the shuttles and then home.  At around 1am we were woken up by our housemates -- "OH MY GOD, DID YOU SEE PHOENIX??"  We didn't think we needed to, since we saw them at Coachella 2010.  Well, apparently we missed the showstopping event.  The Ignition Remixes of all Ignition Remixes.  "1901" x "Ignition Remix" WITH R. KELLY.  My friend described her experience: "It was totally dark and all of a sudden there was this voice that came out of nowhere.  But I knew.  I knew.  I whipped around to everyone and cried out 'THAT'S THE VOICE OF AN ANGEL!'  And then my entire body just reacted by... grinding.  Just grinding with myself."  Listen -- I'm just going to tell everyone I saw it, and it was life-changing.  Plus, I got a better view watching this:

And so, my chickadees, that concluded Day 2.  Coming up: Sandstorms, "Band or Drug?," and much more mango.

COACHELLA: DAY 1

As promised, here are my real-(not)liveblogging dispatches from Coachella!  I'd like you to note that I am STILL tired.  Baby's circadian rhythms were straight up SYNCOPATED.

A few things to note:

• I will not be using names, because when I asked my friends "How do you feel about being mentioned in a blog along with the use of "medicinal" materials that are 100% legal in the state of California?" -- their response was universally "Mmmmm, no, we do not feel good about that."
• Also, their faces will remain anonymous, and any picture you see in these subsequent posts will be of my "friends."  And random ones of me.  Because as we all know, I am way beyond no shame.

OK, so let's start at the beginning.  My friends and I stayed in a magical mansion in Palm Desert that oddly resembled Osama Bin Laden's compound featured in "Zero Dark Thirty."  Surprisingly, the compound didn't come with militant jihadist families -- but it did have a great pool, fire pit and outdoor gazebo (which one friend decided would be his "bedroom" for the next 3 days)!  My WEEKS of Coachella dieting paid off and I finally was able to fit into my burkini.  I also procured a large lunch sack/paper bag of medicine for my numerous ailments -- anxiety, headaches, anorexia, bulimia, and glaucoma.  Because I have so much trouble swallowing pills, the medication came in different forms, such as inhalation mechanisms, lollipops, and baked goods like brownies, rice krispie treats, and something that resembled a slice of Key Lime Pie.  I concluded that the first day would be a good time to medicate with a lollipop.

Next was figuring out what to wear.  We all know everyone who goes to Coachella looks like an idiot.  While some people attempt to make bold (confusing) fashion statements, I try to figure out what I can wear without producing an offensive amount of sweat.  I ended up with a blousy tank and jorts, and because my fashion statement is "utility," I wore sneaks and brought my high school backpack out of storage.

The festival is a haven for skanks.  I'm reading you, child Ambrosio in your see-through dress.  I'm read. ing. you.

We walked to our shuttle stop -- and I think on that 10 minute walk alone, I lost 5 lbs in water weight.  After getting off the bus for our hipster teen tour/birthright trip, we found ourselves in some sort of maze for the next 45 minutes.  It was miserable.  Everyone's rave paint was melting, fake eyelashes were falling in clumps, and amorphous, breezy fabrics were stuck to bodies.  After getting though what looked like a Halloween Maize Maze on peyote, we made it to the first checkpoint.  They were not messing around -- we were divided into lines for men and women (although there were a lot of people I wouldn't be able to place into one line or the other due to sartorial life choices), and then proceeded through security.  They looked EVERYWHERE -- every pocket, every nook, every small pouch which held my tampons that I piled over my medication.  Sike, they didn't look there because one of my friends shoved her bag in front of the woman's face before she made it into my side pocket.  Right behind the bag checker was the feeler-upper.  I turned to face the lines of waiting festival-goers as a security "official" groped me to the point of owing me a hot meal.  I think the most awkward part was making direct eye contact with a guy waiting in line as I was getting groped.  My only reaction was to connect with a knowing shrug, like "Don't you hate when this happens to you?"  The good news is -- no lumps!

Whew!  I wiped my brow because nothing was confiscated and a huge puddle of sweat was forming on my forehead.  But what lay ahead in the distance?  ANOTHER security check.  It was definitely the heat and maybe some fear, but I just kept on sweating.  Just for future reference: Drug mule probably wouldn't pan out for a career choice.  The security at these gates was not as intense, and once we made it in we stopped to wait for our entire group to reconvene.  This gave us time to watch one of the funniest sights of the weekend -- a bunch of white dudes entering the festival, arms raised high, shouts of success, as if they were exiting Robben Island.

Our first stop was naturally the bathrooms, or sheds on top of holes that were filled with human waste aka "Porta-Poties."  These vessels were actually NOT as bad as one would expect, but I most likely took off a few layers of epidermis with the amount of purell used.  As I was waiting for a friend, I noticed two girls go in together (I'm still curious as to if there was a sanitary place to do a line of coke in a porta-potty) and both were BAREFOOT.  Their feet made direct contact with whatever did NOT make it in the excuse for a toilet that is a hole in the ground.  The thought "THEIR LIFE IS A MESS!" popped into my mind, and then I realized I was 26, surrounded by high schoolers and would be heading back to D.C. where I live with my mother.  Who's also my boss.

The lollipops were distributed to those who were suffering from headaches and or "general pain" and we meandered over to our first show -- Youth Lagoon.  I've never heard, or heard OF them.  Everything you need to know about this band can be summed up in this one picture:

My mother will be ecstatic to hear jean jackets are back.  Since she's been wearing hers since '93.

Here's one of their songs: 

I started mindlessly eating the lollipop and before long was at the point where I was biting off sugary chunks while looking at a group of "youngsters" in front of us.  They were circled up, looking anemic and judgmental (I'm one to type...) passing around a joint.  That's right -- they were smoking the dope.  One kid, who was about 107 lbs, was in a Smiths Tshirt, black skinny jeans transformed into long jorts, and a pair of potentially ironic transition lenses.  My guess is the kids hit Urban Outfitters HARD before piling into one of their parents' cars for the trip to the desert.  I've never felt so old.  Oh wait, no, there was the moment shortly after, when my friend witnessed a group of KIDS snaking their way through the crowd, all holding hands, and turned to her boyfriend to exclaim "THAT KID IN THE FRONT IS NINE YEARS OLD."  Unfortunately a kid further down the line thought this comment was directed at him and responded, oh so confidently -- "UM, EXCUSE ME.  I'M FIFTEEN."  At my age, I can safely say that's basically the same thing.

I'd just like to make a note of something -- most L.A. area private schools now GIVE THE STUDENTS THE FRIDAY OF COACHELLA OFF.  It's an Angeleno holiday.  AND, of the absences from other L.A. area schools -- the majority are "Excused," meaning THEIR PARENTS CALLED THE SCHOOL TO SAY THEIR KID WON'T BE IN ON FRIDAY.  These parents are oddly encouraging their children -- and I mean children, because I don't even know if any of them had their permit or could grow facial hair, to go do drugs in an environment with a high risk of dehydration!!!  I mulled this over as we walked out of the tent, and witnessed a group of teenagers doing key bumps while sitting on the ground.  AH TO BE YOUNG.

We walked over to the next tent where Dillon Francis was DJing.  We were boppin' around having a gay ole time when I had another aged moment.  Intermitendly, Dillon Francis would scream to the crowd things like "I fucking hate you Coachella!  And you fucking hate me!  OK LET'S DO THIS!"  To which we would kind of look at each other thinking, "Well.  That's not very nice is it?"  He also said "REMEMBER: YOU CAN'T GET AN STD IF YOU NEVER GET TESTED!" Seeing all the kids screaming and cheering I just wanted to grab the mic and say "YES YOU CAN!  PLEASE GET TESTED BECAUSE I'M SUPER SCARED OF MAKING OUT WITH SOMEONE WITH HERPES! OK COOL YAY COACHELLA!"

Here's a video of his performance:

We hadn't eaten since lunch (it was about 3pm at the time) so we were FAMISHED.  The group meandered over to the food tents.  The lines were too long, but given the time, I would've definitely gone up to the vegan stand and asked "Hey... do you have any on trend grains?  Like quinoa?  Or farro?  Or maybe just some chia seeds on top of some fair-trade dairy-free yogurt?  Also, I'm going to need each grain to not be husked, and obviously gluten-free.  But I mean like, wasn't in a kitchen with anything that had gluten in it.  Like hasn't been in contact physically or spiritually with gluten.  Just like, get gluten as fucking far away as you can from my system.  Do you take Venmo?"  I decided to get what would soon become the mascot -- nay, the glue that held our trip together... the mango sorbet IN a mango.

We took a seat across 2 picnic tables under a tent.  This is when things started to get "interesting."  Apparently, people reported to their medical professional (me) that they started feeling the effects of the lollipop.  I didn't think I was feeling anything at the time, but I was also trying to eat my bowl made of mango after devouring all the sorbet -- ripping and running the skin through my teeth.  One of my friends started to feel light-headed.  We just assumed it was dehydration and she should have more water.  We realized it was something a little more serious when she somehow could no longer communicate with words, and attempted to explain she was having a heart attack.  One of my other friends clarified that it was merely the insanely loud bass coming from a musical act.  But, because I'm a Jew + Hypochondriac (perhaps one in the same) I dispatched a friend to get the medics.  I would like to note, everyone sitting at our table had a lollipop.  The medics biked over and took her blood pressure, and pulse.  They then started the inquisition.  I believe it was at this point that the adrenaline in my body overtook any other "influence."  They asked about her hydration, and then when we thought they would treat her for that, the main medic turns around a la a spandex-clad Columbo, and asks "Oh... one more thing.  Did you have anything else today?  Any drugs?"  The other people at the table and I were looking anywhere but this man's face.  She shook her head.  He then said "Listen, we're not the cops... we need to know."  There was then the longest pause in the history of pauses.  Or maybe I couldn't process time in the same way as someone with all their faculties, WHO KNOWS.  Finally, she whispered "A weed lollipop."  "A weed lollipop?  Did I hear that right?"  She nodded slowly.  "And do you know the person who gave you this weed lollipop?"  WELL, THAT'S ALL FOLKS.  I started mentally apologizing to my parents and my coworkers (one in the same), convinced I was going to the police tent, but then, the clouds parted -- she shook her head no!  That's my girl!  So instead, the festival medical crew thought she had been given tainted candy from a stranger.  OK, could've been worse... not really, but OK.  They took her away to the medical tent for some R&R (if you call getting an IV and sleeping in a MASH unit R&R).

I followed her and sat on the grass next to her cot.  By the low-key nature of the doctor and staff, I could tell this wasn't their first hipster rodeo.  Which I guess is roller derby...?  As I sat in her "room" I watched numerous people enter due to "dehydration."  So now we all know what celebrities mean when they use that as an excuse.  Any time she turned or made a noise I would get in her face asking "Are you OK?  It's me!  How are you feeling?  Are you OK?"  And would receive a response of that face cats give you when they know you're mocking them with the feather toy.  I was also convinced that my eyes were bright red, and that everyone in the tent was on to me.  I had to think fast, so I started rubbing my eye makeup around and made wincing noises as if that was the cause of my ocular irritation, and then if I made eye contact with a medical staffer while doing it, would make that same "Don't you hate it when..." shrug as the boob line.

I guess there were some more acts during the day.  The medical tent was near the main stage so Passion Pit sounded great.  At around 5:30/6 she started speaking again -- her first words being "What the hell happened?"  I just said "You got really, REALLY tired, and basically took a nap.  With an IV.  And medical supervision."  We exited the tent and somehow got lost on our way back, ending up outside the artists' "green room."  This space consisted of an outdoor lounge area with ping pong table.  We stopped and observed the happenings, which looked the least "rock and roll" of any VIP area.  Super low key, just some slow ping pong rallying, people lounging around speaking at a reasonable volume.  I wanted to stay there forever.

Instead we hopped back on the shuttle.  My ride nap was so rudely interrupted when we reached the Pavilions  but at least I knew I was somewhat close... ish... to our house.  If I knew exactly how to get there.  But who needs to actually know where one is going, when one has Waze!  Waze is an app that tells you the best (DRIVING) route according to traffic.  So I turned it on, entered our address, and ended up spending an hour walking back to the house.  Also -- apologies to anyone commuting on Hwy 111 who saw there was almost standstill traffic -- that was just me walking at about 2-3 mph.

My friend said I didn't have to accompany her home, but here's the not so secret secret -- I like my sleep.  We got home, fell into bed, and thus ended our first day, Coachella 2013.

I'm going to give a non-endorsed shoutout to "Group Me" an app we used to group communicate during Coachella.  Which led to some great conversations, such as:

Person 1: We're looking for you, any special landmark?
Person 2: We are too, stay by the lions.
Person 3: I'm between the loins.
Person 4: I am the lion.

Also, also -- this is not a sketch.  This is what we lived for 3 days:



Coming up... Day 2!

PROGRAMMING NOTE

'Ello Faithful Readers!

Some of you already know that each year, I "attend" the Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival where I (faux)liveblog.  This year, I decided to ACTUALLY go.  I leave tomorrow, and from Fri-Sun will be gallivanting with probably ~100k white kids who have viking-raided Forever 21 in order to look like a mix of Sacajawea x Jack Sparrow.  I am le super excited.

So I most likely won't be posting until next week, BUT I can promise photo-heavy posts and... I will gift you one post per day I'm there (3 posts).

Until then, Mes Hippopotames, watch this masterpiece:

Peace, Love, and People Watching/Judgement!

Adult-lescence

As I was laying in bed with my mother, watching "Chopped," she made an offhand remark that caught me way off guard:

"My therapist asked me when you were moving out."

Excuse me.

"She said, you know, that you're 27, you're an adult and you need your own life."

(By the way, my mom always happens to remember her birthday, and not mine.  Both happen to be on the same day.)

First of all, I'm 26.  And I won't be 27 for another 40-something days, got it?  Actually, you should know that.  Happy early birthday, my mom will probably get you a monogrammed leather luggage tag, you're welcome.  So on my weekly Saturday phone call with MY therapist, Gil, I recounted the blasphemous remark my mother's therapist uttered.  "Whoa, whoa.  That's YOUR choice, isn't it?"  "YES, EXACTLY, IT'S MY CHOICE."  "MY QUARTER-LIFE CRISIS, MY CHOICE!" is my new war cry.

Other than potentially starting an East Coast/West Coast therapist battle, I did something equally as dangerous -- I started to reflect upon my life.  "You're an adult..."  Marion's words echoed through my mind, as I laid on the bed in an apartment for which I was not paying rent.  But am I, though?  I have a feeling that I am not the only 20-nothing who feels trapped in a purgatory between being a child, and bearing one.  Biologically, yes, I am an adult.  I can vote, I can fight in a war, and I can get a degree in Dental Hygiene and audition for "The Bachelor."  According to my religion, I actually became an adult at 13.  Because I guess that's the age where you finally receive the right amount of Tiffany's jewelry (Note: The amount is "Too much.").

But, it turns out -- and I'm not sure all of you were aware, there is actually a lot more to being an adult that the things I listed above.  I know, just as shocked as you are.  For example, there are these things called "Bills" and apparently you can't leave them on your kitchen island for an actual responsible adult/parent to pick up and pay.  YOU must pay them.  They're now addressed to YOU.  Remember how much fun it was getting mail up until about age of 22?  Now I see and envelope and just pretend it's not there.  If you don't see them, they don't exist.  This is the only takeaway I got from eighth grade Physical Science.  Or was it middle school theater?  Once you do pay it, you feel so mighty and in control that you grab that sword in the stone, unsheathe it, and lift the blade to the sun screaming, "I DID IT.  I AM A RESPONSIBLE ADULT HUMAN BEING!" But.  It's a fleeting joy.  Because much like the Hydra, another bill comes in its place the next month, and the next month, AND THE NEXT MONTH.  And you soon drop the kingly "No, that's for adults, sweetie" sword, and return to your peasant labor so you can shove a few shillings in an envelope to Blue Cross.

Also, there are those moments where I just feel like a dumb kid.  One night, a few years ago in L.A., my car got towed.  To those outside of L.A., this really isn't a big deal.  It almost got to the point where it was the same hassle as picking up a friend from the airport.  Except you can't hold a favor over L.A. County's head. So my car gets towed in West Hollywood.  I was out with my friend Alli (no, not Allie or Ali), and we both went over to the impound which wasn't too far away.  Inside the waiting area was a belligerently drunk gay couple retrieving their vehicle (that I hope they didn't drive home... actually no, I kind of do...).  I approached the window, and this is what followed:

Me: I'm here to pick up a white Prius that was towed from Santa Monica Blvd.

(Guy shuffles paperwork.)

Tow Man: Yeah, I can't give it back to you.

Me: But it's right there, in the lot.  I can see it.

TM: I can't give it back to you.  See, you have five outstanding parking tickets and are overdue on registration.

Me: But I did my registration.

TM: When?

Me: Last year.

TM: You have to do it every year.

(Pause as I take this in.)

Me: What?  Really?  Oh.

(The guys waiting start laughing uncontrollably.  Alli shoots them an icy glare.  Go Alli.)

Me: Well, can I pay off the tickets and then go to the DMV to re-do my registration?

TM: Renew?

Me:  Yes, renew, I will renew my registration.  Can I pay for the tickets now?

Drunk Guy: You mean, your daddy.  Your daddy's going to pay for the tickets.

(Alli was not having this.)

Alli: Excuse me, we're trying to settle this, and you're not helping.  Thanks.

TM: You have to pay for the tickets at the West Hollywood Parking Office.

Me: OK, so then I bring proof of payment back here--

TM: Yup, pay the amount--

DG: That you're just going to get from your daddy.  You're going to call your daddy and be like 'Daddy, I need money for my car.."

Alli: Hey.  Hey.  You don't know her life, OK?

I start shushing Alli, not because I was embarrassed by this becoming a scene (we were so far past that, at this point it was like a Tony Kushner week-long festival), but because the drunk gays DID know my life.  They did intuit, in their inebriated state, that the first person I was going to call was my dad, and the first words out of my mouth were "I don't know what to do..."  Oddly at this point I DID have enough money in my checking account.  I was so used to seeing a "-" before my balance that whenever I received an overdraft notice, I just shrugged.  "Come on Bank of America, tell me something I DON'T know, like is there a distant relative who died and left me enough money to cover 5 parking tickets and a Prius re-registration?"

Of course I knew what to do next.  It had just been explained to me.  Did I WANT to do it?  Absolutely not.  Would I accept help from my parents to get me out of the situation?  ABSOLUTELY.  I am "Life Lazy."  I prefer to stay in a state where I can get assistance.  Do you think a baby really WANTS to leave the womb?  No.  That's why I'm in my baby burrito of adulthood.

After you've tucked me in, can you figure out my life's direction?  Great, thanks.

Alas, there are no forces keeping me in this fetal state.  It's by my own volition.  Every time I go out and my mom offers me cab money, I decide to take it.  Or when I'm sick, I refuse to get treatment unless everything is mapped out for me -- see below:

Currently he's in his "office" (storage closet) filing my taxes.

There's something so comforting, after living 4 years where no one else was looking out for me, about the idea of getting some good, old-fashioned coddling.  I hypothesize that I choose to stay in this state because I'm in denial that at some point (NOW) I have to do adult things.  And have adult responsibilities.   And suffer adult consequences.  My self-punishment was hard enough when I murdered my Tamogatchi, due to blatant "neglect."  I mean, I just learned to write a check a few years ago.  "Forty" is tough because your initial thought is ALWAYS, "there's a 'U,' right?"  Bottom line -- if I DO adult things, then I AM an adult, and there's no going back from that point.

But here's the Benjamin Button of it all -- sometimes I realize, I do act like an adult.  At my Seder last week, there were a few teens at the end of the table hitting the wine, hard.  They wouldn't be quiet during the retelling of the Passover story, and I had the urge to "shush" them.  It took every immature ounce still left in me to not do it.  I was about to be the Shusher.  I was NEVER the Shusher.  I was always the Shushee!  At one summer internship, our coordinator gave us evaluations and said I earned high marks on everything, BUT he needed to note that people complained I was too talkative.  By the way, this consisted of me asking how their weekends were and striking up general conversations...  Not like I'm still bitter from that 3 month experience...  I am.

I'm also tired.  About, let's say... all the time.  When I was a kid I used to get so angry when my mom fell asleep in the movies.  I would elbow her, thinking "HOW CAN YOU BE BORED BY THIS TALKING BAT IN 'ANASTASIA?'  THIS IS LITERALLY THE FUNNIEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN UP UNTIL THIS POINT OF MY LIFE."  I recently went to the movies and debated whether or not I should sleep during the previews.  Sorry mom, now I get it.  You, too, must have been really hungover.  Also new to me-- the fact that "Irish Exits" were a thing, and that thing had a name.  I always thought they were my signature move and were called "Just tell people you're going to the bathroom and never come back."  I find myself doing these more and more to ensure my 8-10 hrs.  I'm having a lot of fun going out in D.C., but it's like Cinderella at Midnight, except in my case, The Plucky Sidekick at about 12:45/1am.

Another odd adult thing that occurred -- I exhibited self-control.  I was at a friend's goodbye party for his apartment, celebrating all the great memories made there, and the small fact he recently bought a condo.  When he told me about the purchase, the first thing I said was "Whoa, you're like an adult.  That's like... real life."  Yes, you, it's REAL LIFE, which you are a part of, but somehow trying to desperately avoid.  I went for drinks before the party, and was pretty liquored up since my adult tolerance has kicked in and after two drinks I'm like Amanda Bynes on twitter.  At the party I poured myself another drink and struck up a convo with some guy.  I realized, after I had "Groundhog Day"-d him by asking where he was from, twice, I put down the booze and switched to water.  The non-adult me would've thought "That was a blip.  But in no way will ingesting more alcohol make you sound even more out of it..."  Speaking of drinking -- here what happened on St. Patrick's Day:

After dinner, we called it a night around 11:30pm.

Here I am, like the gang in "Toy Story 3" on the conveyor belt to the furnace (by the way, that film was NOT a comedy), struggling to get life to just hang on a sec and let me catch up so I'm ready to handle the looming "adultness" in the future.  But, it doesn't work like that. Instead, we beat on, boats against the current, constantly applying SPF hand and neck cream because all ladies know those are the FIRST things to go.