You Deserve a Drink: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery (9 page)

I was so overcome with a sense of relief until I realized,
Hold up. I have poison ivy all over my vagina and butt crack
. It was like,
Phew, I thought I was eating poison but turns out it’s only dog shit.
You still aren’t exactly coming out on top.

And when I get poison ivy,
I get poison ivy.
When I was a little girl, I would spend a lot of time in the woods, and at least once a year my sister and I would come home covered in poison ivy. It would get so bad on our hands that my mom would have to feed us ’cause we couldn’t pick up our forks. We looked like straight-up Garbage Pail Kids. We just never learned the adage “Leaves of three, let it be.”
*

Now, here’s the superfun thing about having poison ivy all up in your butt crack. When you walk, the friction between your cheeks will cause it to spread. So I was pretty much detained from walking. And if I did, I was walking in a ballet second position with toilet paper separating my butt cheeks.

I missed a lot of class in those few weeks, and when my suitemates were questioned about where I was, they quickly made up excuses for me.

Mamrie? Oh, the poor thing got dumped. She’s been eating Bagel Bites and watching
The Notebook
for two weeks straight.

Mamrie has been locked in our room, furiously masturbating to the first season of
The Bachelor
all month. I’ve already called her parents.

I’m Mamrie. We switched bodies. How’s it going, y’all? Woot woot!

I spent my days spread-eagle in front of a fan, with bright pink calamine lotion slathered all over my undercarriage. If you walked into my room, you’d think I was giving birth to a Pepto-Bismol baby. And it isn’t until writing this
right now
that I realized the person who suffered the most during this whole ordeal was my roommate. What a sight to walk in to for two weeks!

If I wasn’t laid out with my fanny to the fan, I was in the tub taking an oatmeal bath in hopes of drying out the rash. The dining hall workers must’ve thought I was a future subject for that show
Freaky Eaters
, judging by the amount of Quaker Oats packets I took from them. On the plus side, I smelled like maple and brown sugar for the next month.

Long story short, the whole ordeal was a nightmare. Watch where you squat, ladies. And for the love of God, drip-dry. Besides the pain and discomfort, it was just flat-out embarrassing—the most embarrassing thing I can think of. In fact, the only thing I can think of that could possibly be as embarrassing as having poison ivy on your crotch is taking a ten-hour flight back to Italy with it all over your
face
. That was going to be a tough one for him to explain to his mama. Sorry, Piero! But also,
thank you
, Piero!

1 oz thyme simple syrup

Fresh blackberries

Juice of ½ lemon

2 oz gin

Champagne

For the simple syrup, combine a cup of water, a cup of sugar, and about 4 or 5 sprigs of fresh thyme in a saucepan. Leave on low heat until all the sugar has dissolved and the liquid is good and thymey (ßnot a word).

In a shaker, muddle 4 or 5 blackberries with the simple syrup. Add ice, lemon juice, and gin. Shake it all up and strain into a fancy lil’ glass. Top with champagne. Then throw 2 or 3 blackberries on a toothpick to garnish. The drink will be a beautiful purple (the favorite color of all girls in the ’90s), and the blackberries will resemble caviar, ’cause this shit is classy.

I
have zero hesitation admitting that I am a complete and utter narcissist. A self-deprecating narcissist, but one nonetheless. I probably post at least one selfie a day. It’s one picture—that I probably took fifteen times to get right. I talk into a camera at least twice a week, then stare at my face as I edit it, then continue
staring at my face as I upload it.
*
But when I was growing up, it wasn’t that simple. You took a photo of yourself and there was no checking it to see if your eyes were open. There was no, “Delete that. I’m making a derp face.” You had to play the roulette of dropping off the film at a drugstore and waiting a week to get it back. Envelopes of pictures were more nerve-racking to peek at than pregnancy tests!

Disposable cameras have seen things. And touched things. There’s something about disposable cameras that makes people stick them down their pants and take a crotch shot. All I know is if I worked at a film-development counter, I would put on a fuckin’ hazmat suit if someone handed me a Kodak one-use. Back in my w
horey
glory days of college, I would straight-up get
anxiety
when I went to pick up pictures. I’d walk up to the CVS counter looking like the Unabomber—hat pulled down low, my hair in my face—and mumble, “Hi. I’m here to pick up some pictures. It’s under the name Twila Falstaff.”
*
Usually this was met with an “Mm-hmm” and a judgmental eyebrow raise as the clerk passed along the envelope, followed by me booking it out of there to check my pics in the safety of my car. Occasionally, the CVS employee would want to see me sweat, and I’d have to explain what was on the camera.

Ummm. They’re pretty standard ones. Girls holding wine. Tailgating at the football game. Someone licking whipped cream off my neck as I’m dressed as Al from
Home Improvement.

But of all the photos that have ever been taken of my face, there is one that holds a very special place in my heart. And that was . . . my Glamour Shot.

For those of you who didn’t grow up going to malls (or were born
after 1990), allow me to explain what Glamour Shots are. Glamour Shots are essentially the love child of head shots and the ’80s prime-time soap
Dallas
. Real cosmetologists (more than likely beauty school dropouts) would style your hair and apply your makeup and deck you out in lavish costume jewelry and clothing. If that wasn’t heaven enough, then you’d be placed in front of a crushed-velvet backdrop as the photographer snapped pics and said stuff like:

Beautiful! You are a natural. Just like Linda Evangelista! I haven’t worked with anyone so talented since the JCPenney summer-sale shoot!

To ten-year-old Mamrie, the idea of Glamour Shots was a dream—my one-way ticket to Tinseltown. I had been begging to get an agent since the time I could talk; I’m almost positive that my first words were “lower commission.” In my scheming brain, I could get my fancy Glamour Shots and mail them out to agents all across the US. Soon enough, a bidding war would erupt, and before you knew it, I would be replacing Topanga on
Boy Meets World
and changing the title to
Rider Strong Meets Mamrie
, because let’s face it, Ben Savage might’ve had adorable curls and a charismatic old-Jewish-man vibe to him . . . but Rider was the babe.

I had been trying to punch my ticket out of Boonville since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, but there weren’t a lot of agents scouting my area.
*
The only audition I went on as a kid was a cattle call for a lead in a made-for-TV movie. I wore my most adorable shorts overalls and my favorite Limited Too floral shirt. I even had my hair pulled back in a ponytail with a teeny-tiny stuffed animal bunny on the elastic. What could be cuter? We went to a hotel banquet hall filled with other
decent
adorable ten-year-olds and waited for two
hours. Even though I felt like I charmed the casting directors and killed a Julia Sugarbaker sassy monologue from
Designing Women
,
*
I didn’t get the part. In fact, they had thousands of little hopefuls like me come audition and then ended up giving the role to Anna Paquin. Anna Paquin—who had already
won an Oscar
when she was eleven. To this day, I can’t watch
True Blood
. The fact that they chose her gap teeth over mine is too much to bear.

But I wasn’t going to let one TV movie crush my dream. I figured I just had to change my approach. Forget overalls and bunny hair ties—I needed sultry backdrops and possibly a boa, the type of enhancements that only Glamour Shots could provide. But Glamour Shots weren’t cheap, and before I could cruise on to bigger and better things, I had to convince my mom to shell out the dough. My first attempt was asked in what I thought was a very mature and reasonable manner, but she wasn’t having it. I went back to the drawing board and came back with a rock-solid proposal.

“Mooooooom. PLEASE. For my birthday! I don’t want a party, just Glamour Shots!”

“Mamrie, Glamour Shots make preteens look forty years old. If you want some pictures taken I can do it myself, here in the house.”

But something told me it wouldn’t be the same to just put on my mom’s old eye shadow and stand in front of her flannel sheets. I had to go for a more severe tactic.

“First you and Dad get divorced. Then I lose the role I was born to play. And now I can’t get Glamour Shots?!”

“Mamrie Lillian Hart . . .”

Uh-oh. The last time she used my full name was when she caught my friends and me prank calling our neighbor by asking if Mike Hunt was home. If I was going to get what I wanted, I had to go big.

“I can’t get Glamour Shots. I can’t get an agent. I can’t get an in-ground pool. Should I just write down all my dreams so you can set it on fire in front of me, or would you rather watch my pluck and optimism slowly disintegrate over the years?”

(Or something along those lines.)

Thanks to the massive guilt trip I laid, Mom agreed. In lieu of a birthday party that year, I would sacrifice my friends’ good times and instead selfishly get pictures taken of myself. It was on!

Now, to help you fully understand the experience and what was going through my brain at the time, the next portion of this chapter will function as a diary entry. Why? Because I was always writing in a diary when I was that age—a Hello Kitty one, to be exact. I was on the Hello Kitty bandwagon
waaay
before everyone else, thanks to an exchange student my mom brought into our house. When I was growing up, my mom was always bringing exchange students to live with us. At any point, there would be an Irish kid or a German teenager in our spare bedroom. I’d like to say it was my mom’s way of helping us to be open-minded and comfortable around other cultures, but I think she just wanted an in-house babysitter. To this day, I can say, “What do you mean I have to watch her?” in five languages.

Kyoto was my favorite, though—a supercool teenage girl from Japan who stayed with us for a whole year. I loved her, and when she went back to Japan, she would send me Hello Kitty stuff. Every time I got a little package from Kyoto, I was in heaven. I would obsess over my little erasers and notebooks and candies like they were gold. But that Hello Kitty diary was the ultimate import. I thought of it as my confidant, my best friend. Which means either that diary was magical, or I was very lonely. Possibly a little of both.

All right. Everyone take a moment, do some light stretching, and try to put yourself in the mind-set of a ten-year-old maniac. Can you feel the leggings and puffy-painted sweatshirt? Can you taste the Dunkaroos? Good. You are ready. Open your Hello Kitty diary and begin reading.

Dear Diary,

First off, I gotta say sorry for not writing in you for so long. I know I promised that I would write in you every day, but I’ve been so busy with school. And basketball. And building my Jonathan Taylor Thomas shrine. Anyway, allow me to catch you up on a few things since I last wrote. . . . Yes, I’m now in fifth grade. NO, I still haven’t gotten my period. . . .

Anywho, last night I couldn’t sleep at all. And it wasn’t just because I stayed up late watching “Now and Then.” I swear, every time I see that Devon Sawa I get this tingly feeling in my privates area. Almost like it fell asleep, but trust me, that thing is awake!

Anywhoozerz. I couldn’t fall asleep because I was too excited. The reason I was so excited is because today I was going to get GLAMOUR SHOTS. That’s right. My first-ever photo shoot! First step, Glamour Shots; second step, Oscar; third step, slapping that smile off Anna Paquin’s face!

The drive to the mall felt like an eternity, and not just because my mom was listening to a Garth Brooks cassette. My mom let my sister, Annie, come with us. UGH. Annie is so annoying. She’s two years older than me, and she thinks that makes her an adult. Also, she thinks she’s hot shit since she got a water bed. Don’t get me wrong, water beds are crazysexycool, but Annie doesn’t need one. She gets seasick! Oh well, as much as I want to pinch her sometimes, she is my sister and I love her. And I didn’t just write that because I know you are reading this, Annie. Annie, stop reading this!

We got to the mall an hour early, so I had a little time to hit up my favorite stores. First stop, Candy Express. I needed to pick up a new jumbo Everlasting Gobstopper. They are super popular right now. If you aren’t sucking on an Everlasting Gobstopper the size of a softball, you might as well be invisible. It took me three weeks to get to the
middle of my last one. And when I did, after three weeks of work, want to know what was in the middle? More candy. I thought there would at least be a ruby or some kind of precious gem inside, but nope. Oh well, it was worth it, even though my tongue bled for days and I couldn’t really taste food for a week. Mom said I scraped off my taste buds, and I said, “I did it on purpose—have you tasted your meat loaf?” J/K. Mom’s meat loaf is the shit. Annie, tell Mom I wrote good things about her meat loaf and then STOP READING!!

After Candy Express, I checked out the new styles at Abercrombie & Fitch. Have you seen the boys who work at that store? They smell like a woodsy daydream, and the models are barely wearing clothes! Once I get my period and my boobs come in, I think I’ll model for them. If they’re lucky! Speaking of modeling, I saw this episode of “Saved by the Bell” last Saturday where Kelly Kapowski starts modeling. She does a photo shoot and the photographer tries to convince her to take off her top, which she refuses. They wanted her to go to France and she turned it down! What an idiot! Your last name is clearly Polish, Kelly. The Poles have a hard enough time living down their idiot stereotype without you adding to it. UGH. Who turns down Paris? If it were me, and I had boobs, I’d be topless on the Eiffel Tower, flaunting my croissants faster than you can say “Slater, please cut your mullet.”

Speaking of France, last weekend I went to Carowinds with Kristen.
*
We pretended to speak French with each other to look exotic around boys. Every time there was a cute boy behind us in line for a roller coaster, we would launch into French gibberish. A couple of boys tried to talk
to us but we pretended we couldn’t speak English. In retrospect, it was a terrible way to try to flirt with boys. They couldn’t understand us at all, and we spent half the time talking nonsense to each other instead of actually hanging out. Back to the mall!

SO anyway, when we got to the pop-up Glamour Shots store, I was brought to a makeup chair. AN ENTIRE CHAIR JUST FOR MAKEUP! The mirror had all those little globe lights all around it like I was a real movie star.

“Hi, I’m Maureen,” the makeup artist said, reaching out her French-manicured hand. She had beautifully teased hair and her fingers smelled like cigarettes. I knew I was in good hands. I said to her, “Look, I know it’s very hard to improve on perfection, but do your best. Ideally I am going for a D. J. Tanner from ‘Full House’ look, but literally tanner. Let’s say if D.J. were also a quarter Native American—that would be ideal.” Just so you can get a full understanding of how well this mash-up was executed, here’s the final pic!