I have this thing about Amish people: they scare me. I think it all goes back to a newspaper article I read like 15 years ago. It was about an Amish man that butchered his entire family and hung them up in his wood shed as if they were slaughtered deer. This is no joke, but literally the stuff of nightmares. So every time I see an Amish person, I have this terrible habit of picturing them gutting me for my hide — all from this one isolated incident. I know, it’s not fair or rational, but neither is my fear of their beards, but what can I do?
However, Karin’s post about the Pennsylvania Dutch the other day reminded me of the one reason I love the Amish — the Lemonade Fast. Have you ever done it before? I’ve noticed that in talking around, about one in five people I know have done this strange, semi-torturous cleanse. In fact, it’s known to most as “The Master Cleanser” and there’s even a small, ghetto book/pamphlet you can purchase about it, but I can sum it up for you in eight words: Drink lemonade and shit your way to health. It’s that easy.
While I would never do this cleanse (or any fast) while pregnant, I am considering doing it after I pop this ‘lil turkey out. Of course, I couldn’t do it breastfeeding either, so I’ll have to close up shop on my udders (err, boobs) so it’ll probably be a few months after the baby is born before I could even consider it, but it’s a great way to ride yourself of toxins while also losing some weight.
I’ve done several versions of the Lemonade Fast. The most memorable, was the Amish kind, where all my college roommate, Kate, and I ate for like seven days (not counting the peanut butter I scarfed with my fingers out of the jar as if it was poi in a moment of weakness) was lemon juice mixed with maple syrup, water, and cayenne pepper. We also consumed some crazy herbal fiber blends and bentonite clay that we picked up from this Amish farm outside of State College in Pennsylvania. I’ll never forget tearing into the parking lot in Kate’s Saab convertible and skidding to a dusty halt not two inches away from busting through the Amish family’s barn. They cursed us “city folk” for our recklessness and couldn’t sell us our shitting tonic fast enough, but I was just happy to escape with my life!
Kate and I: Partners in Poo
Amish people scare me more than clowns. But I defied this fear in order to purchase their cleansing potions.
Last night I met my college girlfriends Amanda, Gwen, and Sairyn for dinner. Over salad and pizzas, we rehashed our four years at school and discussed the hairlines of countless ex-boyfriends. We laughed about things we did in college, that, at the time, just seems so normal (ie. drinking vodka cranberries ’til we peed the bed, dancing on mantles in skirts so short they were technically just underwear, and only eating Subway and Pokie sticks for weeks on end).
Of course we caught up on what’s going on in our lives currently too, but somehow it’s always more fun to talk about every single person who was in the Greek system at Penn State between the years of 1997 and 2001 — where they work, who they married, and how their skin looks.
After living in San Diego where the closest PSU girlfriend was 100 miles north in LA, I definitely value having girls who lived the same college experience as me right here in town. Granted, now that I’m taking care of a family, the life of a student seems SO far removed, but it’s always nice to have people around that share the same memories. Because really, when there’s no one around that remembers the same stuff you do — doesn’t it feel like it never happened? That’s why nights like last night are so great — they reaffirm that yes, at one point, I did wear a size 2 and stay out until 4am. Because as my belly gets puffier looking by the day and I have trouble keeping my eyes open past 9pm — I can hardly imagine anything else!
As Grey and I are try to sell our house, I can’t help but think of all the former places I’ve lived. I lie awake at night stressing about unloading this place and I count my former homes like sheep. There’s my parents house in Erie, dorms at Penn State, a waterfront condo in Pacific Beach, the “Underground Youth Hostel” in Sydney, an adorable Cape Cod cottage in Newport…to name a few. Nothing too fancy, but all memorable just the same.
Yet, of all the places I’ve lived, I must say, my first real apartment (meaning the one I paid for without my parents help…. most months at least) was the most unique. It wasn’t the location — it was in Manayunk, a funky little section of Philly where tons of Penn Staters gravitate following graduation. And it wasn’t the cost of rent — $450 bucks per month. What made my house on Hermitage Street so special (for lack of a better word), was that it was a former funeral home. No wonder it was so cheap; dead people used to hang out there!!
The funny thing was, when I moved, I initially had no idea. I just thought it was just a really big old house with tons of parking (perfect for keggers!). I lived there with my TriDelt sorority sister, Amanda and apparently both of us are clueless because we never made the connection that the giant double doors in the front of the house actually let people in to pay their respects or that the chilly laundry room was in fact an old embalming chamber. It wasn’t until one night when we ordered pizza and the delivery boy said, “So, you girls decided to rent the old parlor?” that we finally figured it out. Then it all made sense. The old signpost in the front yard. The circular drive with an actual parking lot in back of the house. The gigantic viewing area. Yep, we realized we were living in a creepy death chamber. So what else was there to do than gather some girlfriends to create a coven of witches for a seance?
Our little paranormal ritual was pretty run of the mill. Lots of wine. A few spells involving locks of hair and ex-boyfriends. Nothing exciting. However, post-seance, I woke up in the middle of the night  to find ALL the windows in the house WIDE open. Mind you, these were the giant old school windows that went from floor to ceiling and they each had about 10,000 coats of paint on them. Neither Amanda nor I had ever had much luck cracking more than a couple and all of a sudden, on a dark October night (too close to Halloween for comfort) they were all agape with neither of us having pried them open. It was like something was trying to get out. Or worse — IN. We were totally freaked.
So of course, this is what I like to remember when I start getting stressed about not being able to sell our house. I mean, our place here in Arlington is not haunted. That’s a good thing. And any house that doesn’t have a crematorium, well, that’s alright by me!
Home Sweet Home. Why I didn't immediately think: HAUNTED DEATH CHAMBER when deciding to rent it is beyond me. LOOK at the place! It screams PSYCHO ZOMBIE!
Amanda and I a few years post-funeral home residency at a friend's wedding. Surprisingly, the stress of living with ghosts didn't wreck our friendship.
It was ten years ago that I spent a semester abroad in Sydney. I lived with seven other Penn Staters in a house on Beauchamp Road in Maroubra Beach. In Aboriginal language, Maroubra means, Place of Thunder, but in our case, it meant: Place of Filth and Squalor. For the first couple weeks after moving in, none of us geniuses could figure out which day we were supposed to leave the garbage out. Consequently, our unofficial welcome to Australia was a visit from the board of health. They were answering neighbors’ complaints that the home’s new residents were “running an underground youth hostel” and that there were “heaps and heaps of trash” in the front yard. Classy, huh?
So after the eight of us figured out when to take out the garbage, we settled into the routine of foreign students quite well. We all opted for the same classes (my favorite was “The Olympics”) and quickly set up a rotation of attendance so that one or two of us would go to school to take notes while the rest headed to the beach. Oddly enough, I made Dean’s List that semester. But it’s not like we were learning a language (unless you count, (G’day, Mate!”) or enlightening ourselves about 500 year old art and architecture like our friends that opted for European study. I can’t pretend it was anything that refined.
Despite doing really cool stuff (that I probably didn’t appreciate at the time) like riding horses in the Outback, swimming the Great Barrier Reef, and sailing through the Whitsunday Islands, I actually think the greatest eye opening experiences came from the most basic of lessons. Like — if you don’t clean your house you get bugs. Or, if you drink a 12-pack of VB, you pee the bed. The things that broadened our horizons the most were simple concepts functioning members of society know, but at that point, we clearly didn’t. Those six months of living in a foreign city (albeit one in which we could order Pizza Hut) helped us all grow up. A lot.
Here’s to 10 years out!
Some of us on the cliffs in Coogee Beach. I drank so much VB that semester I came home looking like I'd been inflated with a bicycle tire pump. The meat pies didn't help much either.
And our house. Note the bottle of Febreeze we're using to clean the table and the wet clothing hung to dry over the TV set. There was nothing clean about this place. In fact, every night I had dreams roaches had laid their babies in my ears. And they probably did.
I love Groundhog Day. In addition to being a good excuse to drink cocktails at 7am on a cold February morning, it also has something to do with the fact that the most famous groundhog in all the land is a fellow PA indigen. Punxsutawney Phil’s a Keystone Stater and I like pretty much anything that draws my home turf into the spotlight (except things like serial killers, corrupt politicians, and chemical waste).
Even as a college student, Groundhog Day was a big deal. Since Punxsutawney is just an hour or so away from Penn State, there was always a gaggle of groundhog groupies ready for a 1AM road trip to check out ‘ol Punxy Phil’s prediction. And as much as a booze-fueled late night venture into backwoods of Pennsylvania to heckle a rodent sounds like something that was right up my alley as a 19-year-old, surprisingly, I never actually made the trip.
Oh well…To Phil!
For some reason this giant party in the woods looks fun to me. I want to sport a top hat and play with groundhogs.
Seriously, though, Phil better predict right...OR ELSE.
When I first went to Penn State I vowed to never join a “stupid sorority” but I quickly realized I was born to be Greek. The rituals, the chants, the fraternity boys, the cheesy skits, the drama, the slutty clothes — it was in the very marrow of my bones. How could I not rush?
So, when I initially heard the news about Nationals closing our chapter, my first response was, “Did we rape someone?” I figured it was the only thing we could have done to merit a chapter revocation — and the Delts always were a rowdy bunch. But of course, it was for “hazing and risk management” violations — whatever that means.
I mean seriously. Hazing. Don’t they know being locked in a dark basement closet with 22 of your friends is fun? And the screaming? I mean, geez, we deserved it — we were 19-year-olds gone wild and the only thing holding us back from chugging more beers than Homer Simpson and then making out with some random frat boy was the consequence of knowing if we did, we’d be yelled at the next day during line ups. All the “hazing” had a purpose — it banded our 23-girl pledge class together — but also kept us in check that first semester at school, when, if it weren’t for the sorority, I know I probably would have flunked out. That seems to be the very definition of “risk management.”
So as much as I am thankful for Delta Delta Delta for enhancing my college experience — I also really question Nationals decision to close Alpha Phi. It seems to me that whatever the girls’ violations were — they can’t be that creative. They’re probably only doing what most of the other 150 chapters of TriDelt are doing all over the country. Instead of shutting them down — why not teach them a REAL lesson? Publicize what their crimes were in the Daily Collegian and then force them to wear modest attire from Lane Bryant for the rest of the year. Make them go without makeup to class and only socialize with the chemistry-honors fraternity. Insist they trade their skinny Sevens for high waisted Mom jeans. Now that would be punishment.
But as it stands, the girls will probably just keep doing whatever bad things it was they were doing – and there are a whole bunch of Penn State TriDelts without an alumnae chapter. Boo.
On game days at Penn State, the name on every one’s lips is “JoePa,” our 83-year-old coach and father figure to the school. I swear, not since Jesus has a man had so many loyal followers. Plus, Grey had never been to a PSU game before, and this also happens to be the last semester for my 23-year-old brother before he graduates college, we figured we’d watch some ball and give Ollie quality time with his Uncle all in one fell swoop.
Bringing the baby proved to be a giant mistake. While we were at the game, I think Ollie’s poor babysitter (a cute girl I found on Facebook) seemed to be run ragged by my wild son. We think he even sampled the fine vintage of toilet water in our hotel. When we came home he was soaking wet, missing his pants, and with a bruise on his head from God knows what. As my brother put it, “At least he’s still alive.” Yes, survival rate percentage is very important when booking a sitter.
All things considered, it was a great day, and worth the hassle to hang out at my alma mater with my hubby, son, little bro, and 110,000 shirtless screaming frat boys.
Joe Paterno is one of the few names in sports I actually know. So I like to talk about him
Earlier this fall, Grey, Ollie and I drove up to State College, PA to visit my brother and cheer on PSU in a football game. It wasn’t an easy trip — waking up before dawn, a screaming toddler hellbent on mastering the sound of swine being slaughtered, winding roads in the backwoods of Pennsyl-tucky (at one point I feared we were to be anally raped by a particularly deranged-looking Amish family), but it was all well worth it for a weekend in Happy Valley.
I was feeling a little old as we drove to PSU; the entire ride up I had this sense of nostalgia for my 21-year-old self. A girl who could sleep in her contacts for three days straight, consume nothing but pizza and beer and still remain bright-eyed, svelte, and cellulite-free (well, kind of, at least).  Not that 31 is old, but ten years makes a big difference; I mean for Pete’s sake, I now identify more with the clothing at LL Bean than at Bebe.
But as much as I loved being back at Penn State and visiting with my brother, instead of feeling sad those days were over, it actually emphasized how happy I am to NOT be a college student anymore. Squatting over a toilet that is probably laced with everything from genital warts to Polio just didn’t appeal. I couldn’t stomach eating slop at 2AM and waking up bloated with as much of a hangover from salt as from alcohol. I can’t imagine sleeping in a 4′X7′ room in a twin bed so close to my roommate that I can smell their breath. Nope, not for me.
Now for my brother, I say enjoy it, because all too soon you’ll be where I am and wonder where all the time went.
"Delta Delta Delta...Can I help ya help ya help ya?" Oh yes, my Delta days at PSU were ones to remember!
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