How To Differentiate Between Drunken University Students and Mothers

It’s been noted that new parents bare a startling resemblance to inebriated undergrads, the following is a handy guide which characterizes various behaviours to help tell if you are dealing with a tipsy twenty-something or a newly minted parent.

  1. Late nights

Drunken undergrads are known for staying up late, stumbling around and then passing out wherever looks softest. Mothers also are known to host all night parties. This behavior cannot be used to differentiate the two

 

  1. Little Sleep Followed By Excessive Napping

After these all night parties both new parents and fratboys have been known to take naps during the day. Once again, daytime siestas cannot be used as a way to tell between a new parent and a fratboy.

  1. An Excess Of Skin

If you find yourself surrounded by cleavage and boobs there are one of two places you might be; a sorority party or a breastfeeding moms group. Tread carefully, previously the presence of sequins ruled out the latter but since the emergence of stylish nursing tops, this is no longer a reliable way to distinguish between the two populations.

  1. Forgetting Items Everywhere

Misplacing one’s phone and identification is a time honored tradition of both intoxicated students and new moms. If the phone is lying next to a squeaky toy, it is most likely a new parent encounter but there is a trend of students owning dogs so this is not a definitive qualifier.

  1. Traveling In Groups While Engaging In The Same Activity

Undergrads are notorious for running wild in packs; jogging, playing sports or hollering in public places. Likewise, mothers are often found working out in parks as a group or practicing yoga, they have also been known to yell in commercial centers, in particular grocery stores. Thus unless one is standing next to the egg section, it’s questionable whether it is a parent or student meeting.

As evidenced by the lists of characteristics above, it’s almost impossible to tell a drunken undergrad from a new mother. The only truly reliable way to tell if the person sleeping at the park with their breasts showing with no identification or phone, surrounded by other similarly attired people, is whether or not they have a baby.

What’s In a Name? Would A Rose Called Monkeyrind Flapjack Not Smell As Sweet?

I met my friend Charity* during my first year of university. She was a shy, but academically driven student whereas I was a loud, party and boys obsessed person who often made it to class. Whether I was in any state to learn upon arriving to there was another thing, sometimes I’d walk in when it was twenty below out in just a t-shirt and short shorts while mouthing “laundry day” at those I passed. Other times I’d run in after the lecturer had started speaking, taking the stairs three at a time while sloshing my beverage everywhere. I almost never had my notes.

Not surprisingly, Charity wasn’t keen to hang out with a hot splashy mess. At first I sat next to my long suffering lab partner Niles*. This unlucky young man and I became friends because his habits of ironing his pants before class and wiping down plastic seats with his cloth handkerchief before sitting, let me know that this was a guy to follow- not only would he for sure have his notes printed off beforehand, he would be able to explain the concepts when I was totally lost. Because who else travels with a cloth handkerchief but the incredibly well organized? While Niles allowed himself one ditzy, flaky friend, the rest of his posse, including Charity, was academia and success bound whereas as I had more royal aspirations, specifically Prince Al’s, the diner frequented by students after the bars closed.

After some time, Charity and I became friends too. Charity quickly revealed herself to be the most responsible person I had ever known, despite being two years younger than me. She used breaks between classes to study, talked about studying more in the evening, was a writer for the science paper while aspiring for the post of the editor and played piano in her spare time. By contrast, if left to my own devices, I would head back to my residence for a nap any chance I got, studied infrequently and my extra-curricular activities consisted of macking on my boyfriend.

Charity regularly shocked me with her ambition and her ability, landing a coveted research grant during our second year. But even after witnessing all of her triumphs, when Charity revealed that she had named not only herself but her younger brother as well, I was shocked. One lives with their first name for a lifetime, bestowing that sort of power upon a child seemed unfathomable to me. I can recall distinctly going through as least four phases where I asked my mother (who refused) to call me something else; Tracy, Krissy, Jasmine, the list goes on. The fact that Charity managed to choose her English name at six years old when her family emigrated from China and stick with the moniker impressed me to no end. When she added the part about her sibling, I was utterly flabbergasted. Had I been given the same power, Diana would be known as Princess Sparklehorn right now, or some other equally ridiculous title.

Conversely, Charity managed to give herself a name she liked and continues to live with. Her brother also still goes by the name Charity picked. As a result, Charity’s offhand comment that she regrets her choice of Unwashed nom de plume, on a Facebook thread about my last post caught me by surprise. To date, she is the only person who has picked their pseudonym on my blog. Four years ago, I was writing a lot of nonsense about naïve people in my life with hearts of gold and giving them stripper names like “Candy” just to be funny. To keep with the theme Charity chose her name here thusly, there was no way for her know that my blog would endure or that my focus would shift from strippers to bunnies.

Anyways, this is a long way of saying that I’m giving my friend the opportunity to change her name here. Because if one must have second thoughts about christening a person, it’s better that it should be in blog form; there’s less paperwork involved in changing it. So far for legal titles which end up on passports and driver’s licenses, my friend is two for two, let’s all wish her luck because in February that number will change to three when she has her little girl.

As for her online presence here at The Great Unwashed, I’m probably going to suggest that my friend shy away from the bunny theme; one never knows when I’ll take up a fascination with armadillos or blenders thus rendering all things Playboy passé.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who are more intelligent than me and therefore able to carry out devious plans involving salmonella or some other such unpleasant species that they’ve worked with.

Midnight Thespians; profanity, moaning and sprinklers

The Student Ghetto Chronicles Part Two

Last night my sleep was interrupted by Roscoe turning on the lights and swearing about “the damn students”.

A hamburger with a rim of lettuce sitting on a...

A truly stylish hood ornament. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This kind of thing happens sometimes, generally after a young, drunken soul leaves a hamburger with the ketchup covered patty face down on Roscoe’s car. For the record this has never once happened to my truck, likely because I bring our rabble rousing neighbours bagel flavoured cake. Don’t ask, I was teased mercilessly for that abomination at home, but the frat boys didn’t complain.

Personally I’ll take the odd McDonaldsified vehicle over moving to a less colourful area where people don’t shout “I effing love boooooooooooobs” at three am. Only they don’t say effing. It adds spice to my day. Or in that case my very early morning. There’s a certain amount of youthful joie de vie which is lost when you don’t wake up on March 17th with teenagers traipsing through your backyard en route to the frat party next door. “Oh sorry ma’am. Cool Snoopy jammies. Do you want to come with us?”

Anyway, so Roscoe has a completely different story but I’m going to tell my version.

So at about eleven o’clock last night Roscoe was studying in a very grouchy manner. The gods of humour and calamity saw this and decided that his evening needed less colostomy bag protocol and more fun. Hence Dude appears underneath the office window. And begins to reenact Hamlet for the two young ladies with him.

Only he doesn’t remember the plot to Hamlet. Or any of the characters, or what Shakespearean prose sounds like. So he just starts fighting a battle to the death.  With himself.

Roscoe, who was focused on colostomy bag incisions, is able to ignore this production. Sort of.

However a moment later Dude realizes that our landlord has left the sprinkler and the hose out. Right next to the tap. Dude senses that his production is lacking a certain something – a storm. Being the Good Samaritan that he is, Dude also noticed that our grass was looking thirsty. This environmentally savvy young thespian knew that the best time to water your lawn is at night. Three birds with one very convenient stone. On goes the hose.

Regretfully Dude had underestimated the water pressure. It was at this point in the evening when swear words, groans and water started to come in through the open office window.

Roscoe, not realizing that Dude was just trying to provide him with some entertainment while watering our lawn, rushed outside and started bellowing at the young do-gooder, who ran, leaving the hose on full blast and soaking Roscoe to the skin.

This is when my husband burst into our bedroom and started going on about that he knows how much I enjoy living in the student ghetto but really we’re just surrounded by awful people.

All I saw was the jerk who woke me up in the middle of the night asking for a towel when there was one on his hook in the bathroom.

Roscoe tells the story differently. Tragically this is my blog, so I’m going to talk about wannabe actors who like to conserve water and help their neighbours. Tough luck dear husband, perhaps wait until morning next time to tell me about our midnight visitors?