#13 The Kidneys Are All Right

In April of 2011, near the end of my senior year of high school, I was pretty stoned.

Hah, just kidding, I wasn't. My kidneys, on the other hand, totally were.

You guessed it: I passed kidney stones.

I know what you're probably thinking: "kidney stones are for old men! How did a sprightly, young 18 year old girl come down with them?" Truthfully, I don't know. Probably by the same pot of gold that graced me, that same year, with a nasty bacterial infection and left me hospitalized in an isolation room for upwards of 5 days. But that's a story for a different time. Here's the story for now:

It all started one morning at school. I was sitting in math class minding my own business, when suddenly I started feeling a sharp, sharp pain in my abdomen. I assumed it may have been my "time of the month" and that I was just experiencing bad cramps. I got through the day and made it home in time for a driving lesson I'd scheduled. I was on the road with my instructor, and I had already explicitly told him that I was on my period ('cause like, fuck boundaries) when, à la most first dates I've been on, I barfed. My instructor was horrified, though he did manage to make a clever, albeit inappropriate joke that went something along the lines of, "now I'm really hoping you were right about those cramps." That's right, he was making a joke about my being pregnant. So, okay, we went home.

Now, despite the fact that I was 18 and about to graduate high school and go to college, I was still a teenage girl, so when my mom wisely suggested I cancel the big sleepover I had planned for that night, I disagreed. I didn't have a fever, so I was pretty sure this wasn't appendicitis, and I promised that I'd go to the ER if things got really bad. If that's not music to a mother's ears, I don't know what is.

The sleepover began (it was at my dad's house) and it was okay, despite the fact that I was in excruciating pain. Eventually I wound up secluded in this tiny T.V. room, writhing in agony while my friends continued the sleepover. In my house. Without me. It was a weird moment on all of our parts and we haven't really spoken of it since. The next morning, I demanded my father take me to the hospital. In a particularly stellar parenting moment, he begrudgingly said he'd take me, but made sure I felt really guilty about it because, I was clearly on my period and going to spend 12 hours in the hospital only to be prescribed with aspirin, I was just whining and he'd hate to say he told me so.

After about 5 hours in the hospital, and about a million "are you sure you're not pregnant?" conversations (my driving instructor would've felt right at home), I learned I had kidney stones. My dad shut his mouth. I was told that I was currently passing one, and I had two or three more stored up in the 'ole kidneys, but there was no way they'd pass anytime soon. I was given a ton of pain meds, and the reassuring promise that, "it's exactly the same amount of pain as childbirth."

I went home, I was on my painkillers, and life was pretty easy. Eventually the stone passed, but that's a really graphic story. I'll only share that the entire process involved me sitting on the toilet for about 2 hours, drugged out of my mind, trying to chug a gallon of water. It ended with me victoriously raising my hands above my head (an empty jug of water in one hand and a tiny stone in the other), and quite literally weeping with joy.

So, it kind of was like childbirth. Touché, doctors.

But then, the unthinkable happened. I STARTED PASSING ANOTHER STONE. It was horrible, and way more painful because my delicate insides were already torn apart by the first one. They put me on even more pain meds, so I was even more drugged up. Also,  I had a big performance that night for a play I'd written and had been working on all year, which I was clearly unfit to perform in, but I decided that the show must go on, in spite of everything. You can imagine how that went.

And that was it. I passed the two stones (because I'm a superhuman and I can pee rocks), I and currently have two more stored up. No one knows when they'll decide to pass, but I anxiously await their arrival.

This is what a kidney stone looks like.

#12 My Very Own Vom-antic Comedy

     First dates are nerve-wracking, and we all know it. Whether you’ve been on one, or none, or a million of ‘em, we’ve all seen enough romantic comedies to know the textbook storyline: the girl’s nervous and thinks it’ll be a disaster, then she gets into a car with some wonderful boy and the date goes smoothly. Sure, there may have been a few goofy hiccups, but they were all quirky and cute and part of her charm, because, let's face it, she’s probably Zooey Deschanel. The happy couple stays together. The end.

     I resent this scenario, and I resent it not only in the, “it’s clichéd and heteronormative and predictable,” way, but also in the angst-ridden, “it in no way applies to my life” way. 

     But, why? Well, there’s no way to put this delicately, so I'll just say it. I’m now 19 years old, and have technically been going on first dates since I was 14. Here’s the kicker: on every single one of them, I’ve thrown up. Vomited. On the date. Yeah. So, here we go:

Number 1
Age: 14
This date, being the first one I’d ever been on, had a number of hiccups, all of which were my fault. The first is that I wore a retainer that required weekly adjustments, which took place on Fridays after school. I decided to save time and bring the boy to the dentist with me, so he had the pleasure of watching as I drooled, and said “Ahh,” and lisped sweet nothings to the dental team. I had started us off in a good place. Flash forward to the movie. We were sitting in the theater, watching previews and enjoying some popcorn. I chose to keep my retainer in my mouth as I ate, which didn’t turn out so well, as I then started choking on kernels and proceeded to cough my retainer into the popcorn. It was the tween equivalent to producing a hair ball. To hide all traces of my spitty faux pas, I hoarded the popcorn and ate the rest of it in about 3 seconds. As you might expect, inhaling so much popcorn so rapidly wasn’t great for my stomach, and I vomited all of it right back into the popcorn bag. Judging by the boy's reaction, at the ripe age of 14, I had just gotten my first lesson in how not to set the mood (hint: vomiting does not equal foreplay.)

Number 2
Age: 15
This was the summer after 8th grade, with a boy who I was really trying to impress. We sat in an Applebee’s, sipping on sodas as I tried to show off my non-existent cleavage, and hide the sweat stains that were seeping through my too-tight Abercrombie shirt. Needless to say, we were hitting it off; the date was going fine. Then, my burger came, and I took one bite only to run to the bathroom and immediately regurgitate it. Now, I’d like to think that this boy doesn’t necessarily know that I sprinted to the lady’s room in order to puke my guts out… I did, after all, cover it up with the fool-proof excuse of, “I had to sneeze!” But, you know, I’m 19 and he hasn’t called me back yet, so I’m guessing he didn’t buy it.

Number 3
Age: 16
This was a big one. This date actually took place with someone that I'd been in a relationship with for a few months, but he lived far away so my parents granted me permission to fly out and spend a week at his house (they all but neutered me, but that’s beside the point.) The stakes were high here – I was nervous for the first real date I’d have with this guy after months of not seeing each other, and I figured that if I messed things up, I was stuck in his house. When we decided on the low key and delicious (not to mention classy) destination of Chik Fil A, I was relieved. We sat down and ate, right smack in the middle of a mall food court, and I kept all of my meal down. And, yeah, I was feeling pretty damn good about myself. Then, we headed out to the parking lot, and suddenly, I started projectile vomiting. Everywhere. This kid wins a lot of brownie points for sticking around and helping me out, bearing in mind that he had every right to drive off and leave me stranded. He was nice enough to help me get cleaned up, though, and then he drove us home with the windows in his car rolled down. The rest of the week was a lot of fun, and mostly vomit free, but I don't think my relationship with Chik Fil A will ever be the same, and that's just something I'll have to cope with on my own time.

Number 4
Age: 17
Granted, this wasn’t a first date, but it was definitely within the first 3 dates. I knew myself by this point. I knew that I was prone to vomiting, and I knew that it came out of nowhere. I suggested that my then boyfriend and I just hang out in his apartment with a few friends. Maybe that would calm my nerves. Still, like clockwork, as soon as I had one bite of whatever we were all sharing, I not-so-subtly ran to the bathroom and started projectile vomiting. He was very sweet about it, as was his sister, who couldn't help but notice her brother's new girlfriend puking her guts out and sounding like, what I assume an angry velociraptor sounds like. This happened again a week later, as we were sitting on his couch eating pizza. I’m not sure that he actually knows about this one, though. Especially since, when he asked me why I had sprinted to the bathroom, I used my tried and true excuse of, “I had to sneeze!” which, as we all know, works like a charm.

There you have it. These are my top 4 hits, but there have been a few other dates, or dinner outings, or performances I’ve been part of, in which my nervous vomiting has reared its ugly head.

But, hey, there's something to take away from these stories: if you’re ever nervous for a date, or nervous for anything, really, you can think back to these and know that even if everything goes horribly, horribly awry – you can trust that it’s not the end of the world. At the very least, you’ll get a good story (or four) out of it... not to mention, who needs E-Harmony when you've got a story like this on the world wide web, am I right?! Get in line, boys.

#11 Playing House

This is a piece I wrote for school. It's a different style than I'm used to posting, so please let me know what you think! My apologies: it's a little lengthy!

As a kid, I was never good at playing house. Ever. I would even venture to say that I was actively bad at playing house, which is a loaded statement. I should clarify and say that house is not a game that one can really be bad at. There are no rules, there is no winner, and anyone can play. So the fact that I struggled with it was just as pathetic as it was troublesome. House is and was, after all, the quintessential play-date game, and to struggle with it would be to struggle with all social interactions of my youth. After all, a game of house was never “just” a game, but something that could permanently set the tone for a friendship. For instance, two kids who could, without any hassle at all, decide who got to play the mom and who got to play the dad, were likely to form the strongest of bonds, while two kids who couldn’t cast themselves so easily (after all, no one really wants to play the dad, do they?), were more likely to be in an ‘on again/off again’ friendship. Come to think of it, any pre-teen drama between friends can probably be traced back to a game of house. This all may seem melodramatic, but such is the life of an elementary school girl.

My ineptitude, however, wasn’t because I was anti-social or stubborn, but because I had a really tough time getting into the game. As rare as it was for a kid whose favorite hobby was acting, I had trouble pretending to be someone I wasn’t. My issues (perhaps phobias) with house would present themselves subtly: I’d call a friend by their real name, and not the one that they had assigned themselves for the game, or I’d remind the other players that this was just a game, and take the wind out of their sails by delivering harsh reality checks such as, “well, you’re not really a doctor,” or, “we don’t really have kids.” All of this made me an undesirable play-date companion, and I knew it. I was totally aware of what I was doing, but I couldn’t control it. I hated the idea of living a lie, even if it was just pretend, and only lasted as long as recess did. Still, I was troubled by my lack of skill, and often wondered where it came from. Was it all in my head? Do I just need to be better at pretending? Does it run in the family?

Turns out: yes, it does. My parents weren’t good at playing house, either, and in the middle of my 3^rd grade year, they told my siblings and I that they were getting a divorce. I’ll never forget the moment I learned: my two siblings and I all sat in a row on our worn out leather couch, our parents standing in front of us after having just called a family meeting. They stood there silently, trying to figure out what to say, while my older siblings and I tried to guess who had died, and whether or not we’d get to miss school. When the words finally came out, though, when we finally heard, “your father and I are getting a divorce,” I’ll never forget what happened next. Something fell over the room, and it wasn’t quite silent, nor was it anything you could hear, and yet it was the most distinct sound in the world. There we were, five people: a dad, a mom, a brother and two sisters, all getting lost in our own heads, all traveling in millions of different directions inside of our minds, and yet the instant those words landed, crashing over all of us was the unison sound of each of our lives changing forever.

No one cried. No one even asked questions. The three kids, or rather, the two teens and me, the baby of the family, all went to our rooms. I practiced saying the words out loud, to see what felt right. I’d look in the mirror and say, “my parents are divorced,” or, “my parents split up,” or maybe, “my parents aren’t together anymore.” I was sort of hoping I’d cry. I was sort of hoping that one variation on the phrase, when said out loud, would trigger me to crawl into bed, with stuffed animals tucked under my arm, and cry. I tried again, “they’re getting a divorce,” but nothing happened. I wondered what I was doing wrong. Kids are supposed to cry when they hear news like this, yet I didn’t feel a thing.

As the divorce progressed, my teachers were alerted. They would pull me aside to make sure that I was feeling okay, and every time they did this, part of me wanted to lie and say that I wasn’t. I was supposed to be upset, and I simply wasn’t. Or, at least I didn’t think I was. That said, a few months into the divorce, my teacher kept me after school one day so that we could talk for a few minutes. He had noticed that I hadn’t spoken in class, and he wanted to know if anything was wrong. I engaged in a staring contest with my knees, took a deep breath, and told the biggest lie I’d ever told. I said, “yes,” and I began to tell him how upset I was by the divorce. I told him I missed having my mom and dad in the same house. I told him I even missed their fighting. It was the kind of conversation that every kid should have with someone they trust, but the only issue was that every bit of it was false. With each word that left my mouth, I surprised myself even more, not only with how far my conscience had allowed me to go, but also with how significantly I seemed to pull at my teacher’s heartstrings.

Back then, I saw this interaction as the moment I crossed over to the dark side. I looked back on this day only to feel my stomach clench into a 20-pound knot. This moment, however, is the perfect explanation of how my parents’ divorce affected me. There I was, stuck, doing whatever I could do to ‘feel’ something. I had snuck around and read my parents books on how to coax your kids through the divorce, and the one piece of advice that all of these books had in common was that divorce was supposed to be a growing experience. I couldn’t pinpoint it then, but this so-called ‘lesson’ paralyzed me with fear. This was the cause of my numbness, and it’s taken almost 8 years to realize this.

If divorce is supposed to be a growing experience, then the kids who have gone through it are supposed to exit the ordeal with a new-found maturity and sense of self. This terrified me. I didn’t know who the older version of me was going to be, but I felt like I had to choose a side before I got there. My own, personal development suddenly became yet another battle of Mom vs. Dad. I would play scenarios in my head over and over again, each one seeming worse than the next. I have my dad’s eyes and nose, but what would happen if I inherited his humor? It was no secret that my mom had developed an aversion to his trademark crassness. Or, conversely, would my dad even want to be around me if I inherited my mother’s ability to be oversensitive? Growing up, it seemed, was accessible only after I navigated past a fork in the road. I had to choose, and there was no way around it. When one of my siblings decided to live permanently at one parent's house, I felt I was doomed. I wanted both of my parents despite of who I might become.

So, I played house. I did what my elementary school self hated the most. When I was with my mom, I pretended to be the daughter that I knew she loved, I was the overly cheery theater girl who was more naïve than anything else. When I was with my dad, I played the role of the spunky tomboy who liked to play football and use curse words. I wasn't thrilled with either version of myself, yet the game lasted for years. I was trapped in what seemed like a never-ending game of house, but no one knew I was playing. Even well into high school, I continued to play the game at home. But as I spent more time with friends, and doing extra-curricular activities, I found myself at home with much less frequency, and so I played the game in decreasing amounts. Despite these new identities I'd created, though, the numbness that I felt when my 3rd grade teacher asked me how I was feeling, persisted. Hard times would come and go, and I barely felt anything at all. 

Suddenly, when I was 16, something changed. After 6 weeks, I was packing up to go home from summer camp. Usually, this is exciting. No matter how much a kid loves camp, the prospect of going home to good food, and a nice, long shower is invaluable. However, I was packing my bags for the last time. I had been going to this camp for 8 years, and I was finally leaving for good. I packed quickly, throwing clothes in wherever they would fit. My linens got stuffed into my sleeping bag, and my shower supplies, however nasty they looked, somehow made it into suitcase. I sat on my trunk, trying to pull the zipper, and then it happened. I cried. Wept, in fact. I curled up into a ball and cried harder than I ever have. I felt this gut-wrenching pain that was awful and dramatic, and totally foreign to me. I hadn’t cried in years. I was heartbroken, confused and humiliated.

I’ll never be able to completely explain why leaving camp was so hard for me. I love that place with everything I have, and no list could capture all of the things I cherish so dearly. But one thing I know for sure is that every time I went there, I became someone new. I grew up, finally. I was entirely uninhibited by the pains of adolescence, and I was unrestricted by my parents. I channeled both of them, and I channeled neither of them, and there was finally balance as I started to become my own person. Suddenly, as I sat sobbing on my suitcase, the heartbreak turned into happiness for a split second, as I realized I was finally playing the part of ‘me,’ and I was playing it for myself... and I loved it.

#10 Light at the End of the Tunnel

Yet another subway story.

It was groggy morning, and I'd already spent half an hour on the subway, transferring, walking, waiting for a seat, you know the drill. There was probably 20 minutes left of my morning commute (minus walking), and I'd just found a seat. The subway was above ground at this point, so I knew I was in the home-stretch. I was content, ready to half-sleep/half-people watch for the rest of the ride.

Finally, after a few minutes had passed, the train got less crowded and a young woman, who must have been in her very early twenties, sat down right next to me. She was sniffling. At first, it didn't really shock me - either she had allergies or she was yet another person having a bad morning. I'd already had to fish toothpaste out of my eye and scavenge for weather appropriate clothing, so I didn't have much in the way of sympathy.

After a moment, though, it hit me that this woman was really crying. Weeping, in fact. Some people were staring, some people were pretending not to notice, and others were probably jealous of the attention she was getting. I thought to maybe give her an encouraging smile, or a pat on the back - something. Like clockwork, as soon as I looked her way, she spoke to me. She wasn't looking at me, but I knew she was talking to me because there was no one else sitting near her on this train, and it wasn't like anyone had bothered to say, "hello" or acknowledge her.

"Oh, thank God you're around."

... Me?

"I really need someone to talk to."

I'd never seen this woman before in my life. I knew it. Either that, or it wasn't early enough for this kind of social amnesia to be acceptable, and I was overcome with guilt. I decided that it wouldn't hurt if I just responded.

"What happened?"

And then, like a bullet, she went off. She told me her entire, tragic story. Her boyfriend cheated on her, she hates her school, and she feels worthless.

It was a lot to handle, and at this point, a lot of people were watching. It was all on me - I had to respond. I could have chickened out. I could have said it was my stop and gotten off, but I suddenly had a flashback to an image of myself on the subway, earlier that year, crying my eyes out about similar circumstances. I might as well have done for her for her what I wished someone had done for me back then.

I'd watched Dr. Phil enough to know how to configure a make-shift pep-talk. I said what you might expect, stuff about how breakups are learning experiences and can present knew opportunities, I preached to her about things getting better, and I concluded with a nice sermon on the importance of recognizing one's inner beauty. I even complimented her dress and-

Mid-advice session, she stood up and started waiting in front of one of the subway doors.

This confirmed my worst fears. Maybe she finally realized we didn't know each other, and was so embarrassed that she had to bolt upwards, or maybe I said something to offend her.

She turned around as the subway doors slid open, and then I saw it.

Her bluetooth.

She'd been on her phone the entire time. She had no idea that I had even responded to her, and clearly someone on the other end of the telephone was engaging in the advice session.

The entire train seemed to realize this at the same time, and this one teenage boy started laughing hysterically in the background. I laughed, nervously, and decided to begin a staring contest with my shoes. By now, she'd gotten off the train and was off in the world, completely unaware of what had just happened.

I was stunned into silence. Humiliated, really. Still, I was slightly impressed by the speech I had given... but I was mostly humiliated. The boy who was laughing in the background was no help, either. Thankfully, my stop was next and I got off the train. Before I could head out of the subway station, though, a young mother, toting a 7 (or so) year old girl put a hand on my shoulder and stopped me:

"You gave her excellent advice," she said, "I bet someone on that train took it to heart."

In truth, that's all I needed to hear.

#9 Practicing Safe Tests

As many of you may know, a great number of Highschool juniors sat down for four hours and took the SATs last Saturday. Now, now, before you turn green with envy, I should warn you that this post is not about some dreadful SAT experience. No, no, this post is about some dreadful practice SAT experience!

I took my practice SATs at a college in New York City, and the first time I went there, I had to figure out which of the two empty classrooms on a certain floor was the one I had to go to. That's how all of this started. Naturally, I thought to play a strenuous game of eenie meenie miney mo, and let fate decide which classroom was correct.

Some other teenage girls walked in and made themselves comfortable at their desks, some of them chatted but it was sort of early, so we all sort of kept to ourselves. Finally, an older woman walked in and introduced herself. She then asked for all of our names, and our reason for being there. All of the girls said some variation of, "I'm doing this for school credit." I responded by saying, "my tutor told me to come here and a bunch of my friends have to do the same thing." There was some snickering but, whatever. Then, without further ado, the proctor opened her backpack and took out a box. I was expecting her to take out timers, pencils, or busy work (it's no fun to proctor a four hour test). She then passed out a condom to every girl in the class.

If you're reaction right now is, "um... what?" then we're on the same page. If you think this is normal, you have a future on Dateline NBC.

So, anyway, imagine my surprise. I take out my calculator, and place it right next to a condom. Furthermore, NO ONE was acting like this was weird... I snickered, naturally, and the woman shoot me a glare and goes, "if you're not going to take this sex-ed class seriously, you can leave."

...

So, okay, I was in the wrong room. Had I walked across the hall I would have been sharpening my pencils and bubbling answers like the rest of 'em. Luckily, that test hadn't started, but that's not the point. I quickly took a trip down memory lane to recall what I said in this Sex Ed class that must have been horribly misinterpreted.

First of all, when I informed the class that I was there because, "my tutor had sent me," I certainly raised some red flags. What tutor forces their student to go to a sex ed class? Was "tutor" codeword for pimp?

Second of all, when I tried to make conversation with the girl sitting next to me, I mumbled something along the lines of, "God, these tests are so stressful!" to which she responded, "not if you're safe..." I chalked it up to some weird testing technique, until I realized that she thought I was talking about pregnancy tests.

Lastly, as I continued to socialize, I said, "you know, when this is all over, it's not like I'm going to use the stuff I've learned for this in real life." Out of context, I was talking about factorials and logarithms... In context, however, I appeared to be some girl just begging for a Lifetime movie to be made about her.

So, readers, this post comes with another very valuable lesson. If and when you go to take an SAT (or ACT, I suppose), and you are handed a rubber... your answer should always be, "E: none of the above."

#8 The Secret Life of Cleaning Products

I am sick with the flu, so, like any rational human being, I spent the day watching Lifetime. But don't be so quick to judge, it turned out to be a very educational decision. You see, Lifetime broadcasts nothing but advertisements for cleaning products during the day. Don't believe me? Today, I saw the same Lysol commercial 15 times. I thought I had memorized it, until I realized that at the end of the commercial, a scrolling list of all of the viruses that Lysol kills scrolls past at lightning speed. Most people might glaze over that list, or take this commercial as an opportunity to get a refill of mint chocolate chip ice cream. But in my delirious, bed ridden state, I read the list each time the commercial came on. You know what? Thank goodness I did.

The list told me that Lysol kills Herpes.

Why did no one ever tell me this? Did you know this? Granted, it makes sense. Herpes is a virus, and Lysol kills 99% of all household viruses and bacteria, but since when is herpes a household virus? Is there even such a thing? No matter. This might be awkward for Lysol to advertise, seeing as the current Lysol ad campaign has three basic elements: some horrendously dirty household surface, a small child coming dangerously close to touching/eating it, and mom saves the day by spraying the surface with Lysol. Because it's bad to eat germs, and it's fine if you consume large doses of Lysol. Boring, boring, boring.

Well, I've decided to help the company out and give them what I think are some great suggestions for a new, spiced up ad campaign. See, now that we know the PG-13 side of Lysol, the commercials are about to get brilliant.

My idea #1
Jimmy's about to go on his first date, but Jimmy's brother Lewis knows a secret!
Jimmy: Ma, how do I look?
Mom: You look great.
Lewis: Mom! You can't let him go out with that girl! I heard she has *whispers* herpes.
Mom: Boys, boys, it's okay. *douses Jimmy in Lysol* Now he can handle anything. *winks*
Jimmy's eyes start to burn and he breaks out in hives, but now he's safe. Buy Lysol.

My idea #2
The family is eating dinner. The token teenage daughter isn't eating any of her vegetables.
Dad: *offers daughter's plate to token teenage son* Do you want her peas?
Mom: *violently sprays the family with Lysol. the table is silent* Oh you meant-... sorry.
Voice over: Lysol. Better safe than sorry.

That's all I have for now. I think this was my most educational entry, so if you're reading this and not doing your homework, at least you learned something about your favorite household antibacterial spray!

Also, if you have any new ad suggestions, post 'em!

#7 Why it's cool to drink Yoohoo! again

Valentine's day is four days away, so it is only appropriate that this entry will focus on the most memorable interaction between a couple that I have ever seen.

Yesterday, as I was on the N-Train, I found myself sitting across from a very hip couple. Square rimmed glasses, skinny jeans, dyed hair... they were the real deal. To top it all of, they had the "retro" thing going on, and were slyly sipping on some Yoohoo! If you're not familiar with Yoohoo!, here is all you need to know:

1) It is fake chocolate milk, and used to be referred to as "chocolate drink."
2) It is insanely delicious.
3) Calling it Yahoo, chocolate drink, or Yoohoo (sans exclamation point) is unacceptable. It is Yoohoo! and it will always be Yoohoo!

I sort of resented them for being able to drink it, though, seeing as it was just a few days ago that I opted out of buying a Capri Sun in fear of being seen as "immature" by fellow subway patrons.

Well, there they were, being really hip and drinking the beverage I was suddenly craving, when the boy triumphantly declared that he could chug the rest of the Yoohoo! if he wanted to. So, he did. He chugged the whole thing, the girl acted unimpressed, and thirsty Wynn thought he was being a show off.

Then, the boy reached into the girl's purse, and pulled out yet another bottle of Yoohoo! He was about to take a sip when his girlfriend pushed his arm away from his mouth and said, "it'll be gross if you don't shake it." She was right. Did he know nothing? As far as I was concerned, this hipster didn't even deserve to have such a fine drink. And then, hardly even one second later, he shook the beverage.

Well, Mr. Hipster wasn't hip enough to remember to screw the cap back on, it was still in his hand. He managed to shake most of his drink out onto his girlfriend... but I'll rephrase, that sounds far too elegant. He poured an entire bottle of Yoohoo! all over her. It was in her hair, it was on her jacket, it was all over her face. For just a moment, every person on the train stopped what they were doing to stare the couple. I was quietly mourning the loss of some perfectly good Yoohoo!, but I managed to catch some soundbites.

"Dude, did you just pour that on her?"
"Are you an idiot? You didn't put that CAP on? Jesus."
"My shoes are going to be so sticky."
"Yoohoo! is, without a question, the best drink of all time"**

**It's possible that my own thoughts may have been mixed in with the sound bites. Don't worry about it.

Meanwhile, the hip girl was silent. Hip boy was glaring at the subway patrons, but then switched to just looking pleadingly at his girlfriend. She looked right at him, and anyone who was watching them (which was the entire train), could feel the cruelty in her stare. The boy opened his mouth, we were all waiting to hear him say, "I'm sorry."

Then, she kissed him. She gave him a long, "I was pretending to be mad at you," Yoohoo! soaked kiss. The entire train applauded. Everyone was so involved in their happiness, that when I quietly shouted "Yoohoo!", I only got a few stares. We got to my stop, and I hopped off of the train.

So, happy Valentine's day, my readers! Always, always, always shake well. Cheers.