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I drank this water today. It reminded me of vodka. Or shampoo.

It was the bottle's fault. The clear taste of water didn't quite match the shape. Long. Thin. The lift and pour into my mouth felt so off. It reminded me of something.

Mad Dog.

Remember Mad Dog? Probably not, unless you were a teenager in the nineties and you grew up in Pennsylvania. It was like the Starbursts of alcohol. Like Kool Aid left out on the back porch for a couple days. Mixed with fluoride treatment & Novocaine. What you drank when you had enough in your pocket for two forties of St. Ides or Old English, but wanted to get more bang for your buck. And by "bang," I mean "effed up."
I never had that kinda money back in the day. I had to wait 'til college to try Mad Dog. One night, some friends discovered a way to make it taste good. We mixed it with Gatorade. Passed it around. Our eyebrows collectively shot to the ceiling.

"We have to tell everyone about this!" I hollered to my college boyfriend. "This is OUR NEW DRINK."

Taste good? Yes. Like liquid Jolly Ranchers. Or whatever candy makes you taste sugar fruity-licious heaven.

Good for you? Absolutely not.

Consider the mixers. Mad Dog: Alcohol and chemicals. Gatorade: Electrolytes and sugar. Put the two together. Electrolytes rush that alcohol all over your body as fast as possible.

Within a span of two hours, the party went schizo. We drank. We sang. We fought. We screamed. We cried. We puked. We said, Never again.

And for once, we meant it.

You know you've got a bad beverage when college kids won't touch it. The next day, we went back to our six packs of Beast and Schlitz. Boxes of Franzia. Icehouse. Bongs. Bowls. CO2 tanks. Whatev. No more hard stuff.

Fast forward ten years. Today, I am afraid to touch tap water. Splenda scares the bejesus out of me. When it comes to alcohol, I'm like Stanley from "The Office." In an old episode, he says, "I drink a glass of red wine once a week for the antioxidants."

When it comes to getting wasted, there's just not enough time in the day for it. There's more important things to do. If getting wrecked was really worth it, 99% adults would be walking around drunk and stoned every day.

Sobriety isn't just a simple convenience. The older I get, the more and more I've become the kind of person I hated as a kid. A listener of Classical music. A fan of public radio. A patron of libraries. A grower of plants. I think going to the farm is fun. Vegetables are incredibly cool.

Maybe grownups are, as a species, nerds?

Maybe it's just me.

The older I get, the more I realize that nerds are the lucky ones anyway. 'Cos with the drinking and the drugs comes drama. I've had enough of that for one lifetime.

Now when I drink, I drink to my health. And yours. Thanks, Fred.

If you haven't noticed, I haven't been blogging. Like, at all. But I got a good excuse.

I went back to school. This semester, I'm a teacher and a student, teaching two classes and taking five. If all goes well, I will have my secondary ed certification in two years.

It's something I've been putting off since... forever. I kinda knew since I was very young that I was meant to be a high school English teacher. Teenagers fascinate me. So does literature. In front of the classroom is the only place I've found where I can stand and feel completely at ease with being a total dork. Plus, I like to think I'm pretty good at teaching. Not that I feel like I know what I'm doing. Seven years as an adjunct has left me with lots of questions, but no answers. But when I enter the classroom, I bring those questions, because I know there are no solid answers. That's why I get up every morning. Because I want to keep learning.

They say, those who can't do, teach. I think it's true, sometimes. Toni Morrison might have some beef with it. For me, becoming a secondary ed teacher is less about giving up writing, and more about giving myself a base.

Before I can feel at ease to write, I need a place to live. I need a dentist. I need to know that I can go to the hospital if I slip on some ice outside and break my leg. I need contact lens solution. Blankets. Hot water bottles. Trees outside the window. Paper in the printer. Veggies in the fridge. It may sound superficial, but without all that stuff, I feel like I'm writing FOR it.

Stephen King said it best: Writing is not a support for life. Believe me, I've lived it. For the past seven years, my future well being hinged on every single word I put on the page. When I wasn't agonizing, I was rushing through everything, worried that there wasn't enough hours in the day. It's just not worth it.

So... yeah. I'm out. For now. Hopefully I'll be back in the summer.

I had my first Valentine's Day with a boyfriend when I was in the 7th grade. It's a memory that has stayed with me. I didn't really like the guy.

For the sake of minimal privacy, let's call him Rabbit. He looked like one. He was the nerdiest guy in our class. I was the nerdiest girl. We were straight out of the "Nerds" movie with greasy hair and glasses and rabbity front teeth.

It didn't stop at looks. He was obsessed with the TV show "In Living Color." He liked to come to school with a stuffed sock and beat younger kids over the head with it. He prefaced all the boys' names with "Uncle." Except he pronounced it "Unca." So Chris was Unca Chris. Nick was Unca Nick. After getting a free poster of a kitten from the Scholastic Book Club, he drew a Hitler mustache and swastikas on it and hung it from the front of his desk, without a word of explanation to anyone.

Me? I talked without thinking. I was obsessed with Nickelodeon's "Hey Dude." At recess I sat on the blacktop with a notebook and wrote poetry and stories.

Really, who else was going to be my first boyfriend?

Now, when you have a boyfriend or girlfriend in the seventh grade, it doesn't mean much. You smile at each other. Sometimes you swing side by side on the playground. You write notes.

In the beginning, it was easy. Like having a boy for a good friend. Despite Rabbit's sock abuse and unintentional anti-semitism, he was a nice guy. Sometimes he told me that I was pretty. The compliment made my face hot and my nose smell like burning. I thought that meant that I liked him back.

Then came Valentine's Day.

The week before, Rabbit told our class that he planned some big surprise for me. The boys, being Catholic School boys, joked that the surprise was fellatio. On the bus, they told porno stories, starring Rabbit and me. I quickly grew tired of shouting at them to "shut the hell up" and sunk down low in my seat.

It suddenly occurred to me what it meant to have a boyfriend.

The morning of Valentine's Day, I pulled a trick on my mom. The old fake fever. Kids on TV were always trying it with a lamp and failing. I had discovered the right way. With the thermometer stuck in my mouth, I clutched my fist around it and gripped it TIGHT. Mom came and checked the digits, and wouldn't you know? I had a slight fever.
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