I’ve never liked alcohol. Don’t get me wrong – I relish splitting head aches, massive bar tabs and exploding livers just as much as anyone else. I appreciate real fun.

What I don’t care for is the taste. Seriously, it’s gross. It’s what I imagine pouring toilet bowl cleaner down my throat would taste like. A cute little umbrella and sugar around the rim don’t fool this girl. It still belongs in the toilet.

However, in order to maintain a normal adult social life, I knew I would have to acclimate to alcohol. So on my 21st birthday, perched in a very-grownup booth, I timidly ordered the first drink of my grand new life: a pineapple alcohol-something, generously dressed with sugar. It sounded like a dessert, so I assumed it would be an easy start.

All my fellow partiers were contentedly sipping their drinks when my grunts of disgust commenced.

Back it went to the bar, to reemerge diluted with more pineapple juice.

And so this scenario repeated several times, each resulting in me nearly perishing of disgust. In retrospect, the drink must have been 110% pineapple juice by the end, but my sensitive palette just couldn’t take it.

Well, this was quite a pickle. One can’t leave the scene of their 21st birthday bash without finishing a beverage. As I was not intoxicated at that point, I was thankfully was able to concoct a clever alternative: I would just order a full glass of frothy milk! Genius. My taste buds would be appeased and I would maintain my cool image.

So that’s exactly what I did. I drank a glass of milk at my 21st birthday celebration. To this day, it’s the best drink I’ve ever ordered at a bar. My liver and bones agree.

I suspect there are many others who agree with me about the superior delights of drinking milk while out on the town… primarily 1-yr olds.

Those older than 1 year? Perhaps not so much.

It’s been 8 years since that full glass of white goodness, and I still struggle to down any alcoholic beverage not steeped in sugar. Yet still, concerned family and friends continue to insist I give alcohol another chance.

And another one.

And another one.

“Oh, you just have to give it time! You’ll adapt to it!”

That’s like saying you should give that horrible boyfriend another chance. You might just get used to him!

Am I really that boring sober? Why would I force myself to acclimate to a thing I can’t stand? I can understand the concept when it comes to showering or work (things that I actually might need at some point in my life), but booze? Why bother? I already have enough trouble not slurring my speech or walking straight.

1. Kill bacteria with alcohol

Most modern guts are rife with bacteria that lead to a slew of health problems. Annihilate those suckers with hearty doses of bacteria-killing booze. Alcoholic drinks are also part of a plant-based diet, and no one can claim that isn’t healthy!

If you wake up the next morning with a raging headache, that just means the bacteria is putting up a fight as it leaves your body. Don’t stop drinking!

2. Prevent aging with salt

Do you long for guts that are as eternal as the Sphinx and never age? Who doesn’t?? Salt preserves your innards so you can eat garbage forever and look hot while you’re doing it. Stop focusing on outward appearance and instead cultivate an inner bloom. As they say: true beauty comes from within.

Potato chips for a long and sexy life!

3. Bolster your immune system with sugary delights

I’ve heard this line of reasoning from so many people uneducated about health that it must be true: If you consume a lot of sugar, you build an immunity to its adverse effects. Conversely, restricting sweet substances in your diet leads to a weakened immune system, because your body doesn’t know how to fight sugar.

Yep. I’m buying that logic.

4. Skip college and eat more fries

Diets high in fat have been linked to increased intelligence. Book your next birthday party at KFC and always, always keep donuts on hand for quick, on-the-go brain treats.

5. Save yourself from a life of delinquency with pop

Everyone is addicted to something. Anyone who claims they aren’t is actually addicted to not being addicted. Succumbing to the enslaving reign of pop eliminates the draw to become hooked on more dangerous substances like drugs or exercise.

6. Chew gum and reduce crime

Chewing gum means you can talk less. Less talking = fewer fights = less overall societal crime.

If you are self-absorbed and don’t care about society, excessive gum chewing also sculpts your jaw line. After a few weeks of vigorous chewing, you can give up exercise all together!

If you feel you could have a problem with not eating enough junk food, seek the help of a qualified dietician or speak to your local doctor. I’ve done what I can to nullify your conscience – the rest is up to you!

I was 18, and like all other 18-yr olds, was spring breaking in Cancun, drinking and reveling in first world debaucheries. And by Cancun, I mean family vacation at Seaside, OR, modestly clad against the chilly Pacific coast weather in sweatpants and hoodies.

During the day, to recover from the previous night’s rowdy board games and early retirement, I was plowing through War and Peace. A respectable 800 pages, saturated with monologues and prosaic descriptions of the chariots of Napoleon’s army, it’s an understatement to say that I was pleased with myself upon completing the tale.

With great pride, my father boasted to my family how commendable it was that an 18-yr old read War and Peace purely for pleasure – and on her vacation to boot. Soon my aunts, grandma and others fortunate enough to be related to me were notified that there was a genius in the family.

Riding on a cloud of euphoria much like Napoleon must have ridden his chariots into Russia, I basked in the glow of my relatives’ admiration. It almost made up for the lack of basking I was doing on the sunless Pacific coast.

However, similar to the quick demise of the French army at the hand of the cruel Russian winter, my bookish triumph rapidly faded when I discovered I had read the abridged version, while my relatives thought I read the unabridged. I could never face them again with any dignity! This nerdy victory was all I had: I was a terrible athlete, didn’t play any musical instrument and was never valedictorian, because there is no such thing as a home school valedictorian.

Clearly, my only option was to immediately read the unabridged version, so that 20 years from now at our family reunion, when everyone is still talking about my feat in hushed, awed voices, I can hold my head high.

So back to 19th century Russia I trudged. Oh, how painful it was. Reading 1,400 pages of a verbose Russian tale that one has just read is the closest thing to mental torture I have ever experienced. Besides trying to remember the increasingly cryptic password for my computer.

But I did it, with only minimal cerebral trauma.

My ego has thankfully shrunk since then – not due to any maturing on my part – but because a decade has passed since I read the book twice and I can’t remember a word of it. Now my only shot at maintaining the worship of my relatives is skipping every family gathering so they can’t query me about the book.

But whatever will they talk about if not my teenage accomplishment? Certainly not their own lives or boring stuff like that.

Good grief, do I have to read it again for the sake of my family??! NooooooooooOOOOoooooOOOoo!

1. Leave dishes in the dishwasher perpetually

Recently I was unloading the dishwasher and came across a few items that I didn’t know where to put. So I did the obvious: left them in for another wash. And then another. At that point inertia took over and I thought, “Why not do this all the time?”

It is not a coincidence that when asked which Disney princess I would be, I choose Belle every time. (Yes, 28-yr olds still discuss their alter-Disney egos.) Her dishes danced, sang and put themselves away. Why are mine so lazy and inanimate?

2. Eat food straight out of the container

So many foods come packaged in containers perfectly suited for eating out of – why move them to another vessel simply for the sake of old-fashioned convention? Modern society is practically forcing us to be lazy, and it’s arrogant to fight progress.

3. Recycle your dishes

If you MUST be a weirdo and eat from actual dishes, but aren’t sly enough to implement the above dishwasher trick, try using the same dishes all the time to avoid cleaning them. With all the preservatives in food these days, you don’t even need to worry about antiquated fears like bacteria or mold.

You will lose the respect of your loved ones who aren’t smart enough to understand this science, but who needs respect and love when you have so much extra time on you hands?

4. Let food crumbs fall on your clothes

If you think about it, clothes are a convenient, always-available bib. Assuming that you wear clothes, letting food fall on your fashionable ensemble saves time otherwise spent cleaning the counter.

For the fashion conscious, wear clothes that match the color of the food you are eating that day. Also, if you are trying to keep a food diary, it’s a great way to log your dietary intake.

(I would not recommend this tip for first dates. On the second date, test out the waters by slyly flicking a small morsel of food on your date’s shirt. Upon finding it, if they react with embarrasment, they’re a pretentious jerk and you shouldn’t date them. If they laugh about it with only a casual attempt to brush off the food, you’ve found a keeper. Leave their number for me in a comment below, please.)

Gosh, my future husband better show up quick before I turn into an unrecognizable, food-encrusted blob whose blouse puts food hoarders to shame. You say the apocalypse is imminent? I say bring it on. I have enough morsels in my attire to keep me nourished for months!

Recently, I discovered that dream is about a likely to happen as finding a Nazi war criminal still alive. I was a mom for a week-ish to my sister’s three little ones, and during that brief time, all my lofty intentions of chivalrous parenting went where all dreams go to die: away from Pinterest. Perhaps someday when my own children are grown ups and still running around like savages, I will show them my swooning “Kids … Someday”  Pinterest board and sheepishly murmur, “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

My future offspring, please accept my advance apology for bribing your good behavior with sweets and movies. I’ll make you cupcakes if you promise to not resent me for it.

Lie #1: My kids will never watch TV

Because … wait for it … my babies will be soooo busy feasting on the glories of Dickens and Tolstoy (in the original Russian) at the venerable age of 5 they won’t have time for TV.

Who am I kidding. Kids love fart jokes, defacing walls with crayons and poop and will be hypnotized by anything that moves on a screen.

The reality is that everyday I was One-Weekish Mom my nephews and niece watched a movie, and honestly, I might have watched it with them too. I have to be able to relate to them, right?

Or perhaps I am making up for all those deprived childhood years of mine, filled with the horrors of books, imagination and the great outdoors. What was my mom thinking??!

Lie #2: They will only listen to classical music

Mozart, Vivaldi, Beethoven … these prodigious names grace my childrens’ early lexicons, as their little souls soar on the raptures of symphonies and complex melodies.

Noooooope. Babies love love love the mind-numbing repetition of Bob the Builder. I discovered that If you combine Lie #1 with Lie #2 and put in a Bob the Builder movie for them, you can create a magical window of time to catch up on Downton Abby. Errr … I mean … catch up on your Mozart …

Lie #3: They will eat like princely rabbits

A health-freak of the highest nature, all things green, organic and fermented appear on my fantasy diet plan for my future brood. But unless I marry Peter Rabbit, I have a sinking feeling that my childrens’ guts will be host to fodder more along the lines of hot dogs, popsicles and ice cream. Hey, all those things (note I said ‘things’, not ‘foods’) can be green and organic too, right?

The worst part of this revelation? My sister’s kids are angels. And I still spoiled them. Banking on the sure likelihood that my offspring will be monsters, I better sign up for a Costco membership now so I can start stocking up on bulk popsicles.

Slight detour:

End detour. Back to not sleeping.

Anxiety seems to have taken the modern circadian rhythm hostage. Having conquered the flimsy foes of ages past – cold, hunger, plague and Mongols – the civilized Western man wrestles with new pestilences of domesticated terror. In a horrifying world of forgotten wi-fi passwords, no time to clean the second garage, and dated wall paper, it’s a miracle any of us snooze at all!

As with most problems, my nocturnal struggles can be blamed on the Russians. God bless their warm Slavic hearts, but if that nation didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be forced to observe the same napping schedule as a newborn baby.

Years ago, I went on a mission trip to the Motherland with a group from my church. The night before departure, I was so jittery and excited I didn’t sleep a wink. Terror that my flimsy American immune system wouldn’t be able to withstand the rigors of fatigue, traveling, and the ecstasy of being in Dostoevsky’s homeland sauntered over into the next night, when I also didn’t sleep.

I had worked SO hard at memorizing my two, short Russian phrases that it was unfair I didn’t know the one I really needed communicate: “Where do you keep the sleeping pills, comrade?”

Desperate to sleep, I finally procured a blessed little bottle of drugs with an indecipherable label. For all I know, they could have been old KGB interrogation pills or orangutan tranquilizer, but by the Czar, they worked! Unfortunately, I was unable to smuggle more of the drugs home. All I returned with were a few dried specks of delicious borscht (a pretty purple soup) on my traveling garb. Oh, and a riveting fear of the night. The insomnia bug had impertinently made itself an permanent lodger in my psyche.

After that fateful trip, I tried everything: Nyquill, melatonin, prescription sleeping pills (this time with legible labels), meditation, hypnosis, alcohol, exercise, aromatherapy, bribing God, etc.

Nothing would break the cycle of fear that kept me up in the eternal night. Each lonely hour separated me from the rest of humanity, as they selfishly slumbered on restoring brain cells. Then just when I thought I was about to explode from fatigue, the sun would peak over the horizon and as if on cue, I would fall blissfully asleep.

And then my alarm would go off 10 minutes later.

I know it’s not the worst problem in the world, but c’mon. It’s pretty gross.

Reprieve finally sailed in one year later, on the pages of a prosaic economic book. Even my rapturous adoration of all things fiscal withered when I callously bombarded it with determinants of demand, circular flow of goods, and sundry other spicy concepts. Relentlessly, I would read for hours, until at last my senses capitulated and I drifted off to my dreamland of blimp-sized Oreos, ever-ripe donut trees and no dogs. Whoever said money can’t make you happy?? Lots of people, and they are all wrong.

With meticulous zeal, I still have to coddle my bedtime environment. Mentally, I can’t hear any exciting or disturbing news before retiring, still have to read for an hour, and the following day must be devoid of alarm clocks, deadlines, and performances in order for me to fall asleep. Physically, it must be pitch black, completely silent and devoid of other homo sapiens. Even if the other humans are as quiet as silence, I can hear their very EXISTENCE.

We all have little crosses we must bear through life, and perhaps this is one of mine. Well, as my French ancestors would nasally quote through bites of baguette, “C’est la vive!”

Look it up. I’m too tired to translate.

So I either scorn the dictates of my genetic wiring (that sounds dangerous, in a science-y way) or quit my job. I might start taking donations from friends so I can do the latter without becoming a burden to our darling government.

Before we go any further, let me dash to pieces a common misconception surrounding introverts: being an introvert does not mean one is an awkward and unsociable mutant. (I got that from being home schooled.) Much to my dismay, brooder, egoist, and narcissist are included in a list of synonyms for introvert. This is clearly the result of a fallacious extrovert conspiracy, who comprise a hefty 70% of the population and most likely wield control over online dictionaries. Hence the more flattering synonyms of gregarious and life of the party for extrovert.

In reality, the distinguishing difference between the two personality types is that extroverts derive energy from large groups, while introverts are energized from smaller gatherings or solitude. Here’s another way to look at it: introverts are so deliciously interesting and exciting that we need the company of no one save ourselves.

So back to parties. As any soldier knows, one doesn’t waltz into a battle field unarmed. After 28 years of rocking the introvertness, I’ve perfected the art of partying like the Amish have perfected technology.

1. Bring a craft to parties

Even the most erudite of minds run out of things to say; even the most bountiful food spread will eventually be pillaged clean. When minds and mouths are empty, hands must be full! I’ve taken to bringing crafts to gatherings (no, I don’t socialize exclusively in nursing homes). Awkward silences are filled with the industrious clicking of my needles and the design of my project proves an ever-fresh inspiration for flagging conversations.

Also, to my eternal surprise, it would appear my bad-ass image has only been enhanced by the introduction of my Batman cross stitch project into social circles.

2. Help with clean up

This is a win-win. You avoid banal conversation AND earn points for being helpful. If equipped to do so, listen to an audio book while cleaning and accrue additional points for being intellectual. Make sure to wear a slightly-pained, ecstatic expression, as if your brain is physically growing … and you like it.

3. Hide in the bathroom

Make sure you have a book or a smart phone with which to occupy yourself during the stake out. Bring snacks in case the cloistering lasts longer than 10 minutes.

4. Stage a phone call during the party

Make it sound like you’re invited to another party that’s more awesome than the one you’re currently at. Throw in key terms like ’9pm end time’ ‘unlimited kale chips’ ‘I can’t hear you because that classical music is so loud’ ‘want me to bring my cross stitching?’ etc. Make sure you prep your mom beforehand so she doesn’t blow your cover.

5. Dehumanize fellow partiers

If you’re the nervous sort and are terrified of making conversation, the customary advice of imagining people naked doesn’t ease the agitation. Either you end up frothing with jealousy or are horrified at the vision, and then things just get more awkward. Try imagining them as your favorite dessert instead.

6. Appoint yourself as party photographer

Everyone wants their picture taken! You won’t get bored, you can hop from group to group and you’ll have digital blackmail for future use.

7. Injure yourself to escape the party

As a last resort to liberate yourself from an irredeemable gala, fake an injury. If the crowd isn’t buying it, you might have to injure one of your fellow partiers, and then offer to take them to the doctor. Win points for helpfulness again and make an early exit.

In all seriousness, thoughtful investigation of your personality type is a fascinating and useful practice, as it simultaneously liberates you from the pressure to be someone you’re not, and also reveals inherent weaknesses you can correct before becoming a monster.

Besides, who doesn’t love studying themselves more, right?

And no, this is doesn’t occur just when I return that cute boy’s call. It strikes even when I phone in to pay a bill. Yes, I am pathetic enough to get nervous when asking people to take my money. What if my money isn’t good enough for them??! What if I stutter?!! I couldn’t bear it if a complete stranger knew what a loser I am!

As such, it is my staunch belief that phone calls should only be used in the most dire situations, such as calling 911 to test if your phone works or getting the number for the police department. Aside from that, texting suffices for all communication needs.

However, as with all blessings, there are downsides to texting. For your perusal, the pros and cons of electronic messaging:

I know I gave Facebook more stage time, so this is not a fair comparison. But it’s been half an hour since I’ve had my social media fix, so I need to get back to it. It is of DESPERATE importance that I see how many comments I received on my last status, who is in a relationship with whom and who liked what picture.

I claim I don’t do drugs, but maybe … just maybe …

To make it to my Top 5 Holidays List, a celebration must consist of at least all of these:

• lying to children
• divisive religious overtones
• figgy pudding
• fat snowmen
• enough nostalgia to raise the dead

Yep, you guessed it: Christmas is in my top holiday slots – all five of them. Which is why I play Christmas music in August, much to the delight of my co-workers.

Conversely, to land in my Worst 5 Holiday List, the joyous occasion must either be:

• Halloween
• Halloween
• Halloween
• Halloween
• or Halloween

Every year, when October 31st rolls around, I dream of turning into a Jehovah’s Witness just for one day so I can bypass the holiday.

Now, if we all dressed up as Frosty the Snowman and knocked on doors to receive homemade cookies from jolly, plump housewives, I’d say: scoot your merry butt over, Christmas Slot #5! You have competition.

But that isn’t what happens. The ghoulish holiday seems to don itself with an increasingly dreary ensemble: ashen apparitions, ghastly ghosts, wicked witches, and malignant monsters. Call me old-fashioned (I won’t be offended, because Christmas is old-fashioned, so it must be awesome), but the relishing of gross & scary things doesn’t measure up to my idea of a good time.

However, since I just maligned the treasured holiday of many, I will now proceed to mock myself, and then we’ll be even. Granted, Halloween scares me, but just about everything does.  The dark scares me, MSG scares me, ducks in groups scare me.

To illustrate my remarkable faintheartedness: last year my equally-timorious friend Cupcake (her real name is Holly, but I used an alias to preserve privacy) and I visited a haunted corn maze. Please do keep in mind that we were 27 & 26 years of age, which is certainly not old enough to be out traipsing in the dark by ourselves. Trembling with fear, we ventured into the muddy, dark maze, nerves taut.

Silence.

Silence.

So far, so good.

Silence.

… “boo.”

No, those were not the cries of one in mortal danger of life and limb. They were the pathetic pleas emitting from us when a teenager making minimum wage, dressed in sweat pants and a cheap plastic mask, jumped out of the corn stalks and blandly yelled ‘boo.’ Slipping and sliding in the muddy chaos, we ran away like squealing, blind little pigs, with me dragging the terrified Cupcake in my cowardly wake. This hysterical behavior of course only motivated him to chase us more.

He finally left, and I was still alive, which was great, because I really want kids someday. As the echoes of our screams faded off in the distance, we crept forward. A deceptive calm cloaked the field.

“GRRZRRZRRZRRZRRZRRZRRZRRZRR!”

Even my frazzled mental state, I recognized that a chain saw is not a common corn shucking tool, so once again we broke into a mad sprint, clawing blindly through the maze to escape the predator’s relentless weapon.

This dumped us right into the path of a gruesome lady, ghost-white and draped in tatters. Moaning, she wailed in horrifying tones, “I am going to eat your bones! I want your soooooouulsssss!”

After Bone-Eating-Soul-Stealing Lady, we were so traumatized that we resorted to the only mature option available: walk the remainder of the maze in the shadow of a small, plump boy, assuming that even fiends wouldn’t prey on a child. Perhaps we lost some dignity points here, but let’s be honest, there wasn’t much left to lose at this point.

This year, I will be celebrating Halloween night with a Christmas party. Sorry, Small Plump Boy – you’re on your own!