regale.

Life crisis averted.

My future is planned. My career is set. Angels are singing. You are applauding. Ed and June are feasting on the satisfaction that they don't have to be ashamed of my Bonnie-less-ness after all. Everyone is just excited they don't have to listen to me rant anymore, but I, for one, am proud of myself. Laudable? Hell yea. Laughable? Why not. Stephanie has a future. A Pi Beta Phuture, mind you. Get on the celebration train and chug.

Cheers.

As for my employment status (of which you are all so curious), I have finally settled with the intention of becoming a freelancer, post graduation. Who will I find to employ me? What will be my service? Please, everyone. Calm down. Stop worrying yourself with tedious details and skepticism. I've got this shit worked out. Let me lay it out for you.

Why freelance?

Working for yourself is the American Dream; but more importantly, it is your dream.. and I want what you want, bottom line. Everyone knows it. I want what you want and what you have. Case in point, your boyfriend. We're really great together and I've actually already plugged our pictures into one of those see what your baby is going to look like websites and let me just tell you, if given the proxemic opportunity, our child is going to reject whatever vapid, average-looking creature you end up bringing into this world. PTA meetings are going to rock. Next question.

Wait. What were we talking about again? Ah, yes. Freelancing. The cultural capital of a menial office jobs may satisfy the lifestyles of many, but not mine. My consideration of such an atrocity is now completely off the table. Ok, maybe not completely off. Listing Scranton as my one and only criterion for accepting an antiquated desk job, I am going to safely assume my prospect in this will inevitably fail. So, yes. Freelancing is where it at.

People that work for themselves have to find their craft and own it. What is my craft? Besides the ability to bullshit entire conversations, relationships and observation analyses, I have this incredible gift of using my personal experiences to help others. I can tell you the best tailor in town. I can give you the phone number of the closest Outback Steakhouse to you, no matter your location. I can spot a ruptured appendix a mile away. I know when you are sad. I know when you've been crying. Shit, I'm like Santa. A very dangerous, cracked out Santa, but Santa nonetheless. So why not put this goldmine to use? Enter: existential freelance work.

I have been to more doctor appointments than your diabetic grandfather. When you finally hit the second hour of sitting in a waiting room, you begin to observe the life around you. The monotony of scans and tests is finally broken when you allow the emotional weight of those around you to pour over your calm, motionless body like a torrential rain. I'm joking. That's weird. But, really. You see some really twisted shit when you're around sick people.

I like to make people happy. I like to reassure people. I like people that like who they are and what they're doing and why they're doing it. I want that to be my job. I want to combine all the things I like with all the things I've done and make it the most bad ass freelance job ever.

Have you ever seen someone waiting their turn to see the doctor and it looks like they might actually implode at any given moment? What about the people in line to turn in their charts after their appointment, clearly dealing with the information just provided to them? If you go to an appointment alone, you don't really experience the adventure to its full potential. Everyone needs a companion, a driver or an encouraging voice. I want to be that companion. I want to be that driver. I want to be that voice. After a slight miscommunication and wrongful prescription, I quickly learned that I can't make jokes or sarcastic comments during my own appointments.. therefore I want to come to yours.

Has something ever happened to you mid-exam or mid-physical that was so awkwardly hilarious you couldn't wait to tell your friend? Then, you hurriedly get dressed and rush out of the doctor's office to call that friend only for them to not pick up? I mean, you could leave a voicemail, but we all know it just wouldn't be the same. Don't you just wish someone was standing nearby ready and eager to hear all about your awkwardly hilarious experience? Yes, you do. I agree. That's why I want to be that person. I want to make your doctor's visit the ultimate experience.

You don't know what you have until it's gone. My rampant overuse of cliches may get old, but this one is the guiding light in my final career decision. I have always had someone accompany me to my appointments over the years. Whether it was my parents, sister or some undeserving friend who felt compelled to help, I had someone to drive me and keep me entertained throughout the entire process. I took this for granted and never truly appreciated their being there. It took one appointment for that all to change. Living three hours away from home, my parents aren't really feasible doctor appointment companions. In college, Bonnie had become the go-to passenger. Although this instance happened a long time ago, it serves as a turning point in my life. Ok, not really. But it was awkward and me posting it will make seven of you feel uncomfortable, so here we are.

One of my doctors is my best friend. I use the term best friend very lightly, by the way. Especially when my best friend is poking and prodding past my comfort zone. This same doctor is also Morgan's best friend too, but don't tell her I told you. She'd have a fit. A fit, I tell you. Between passing out in this lady's arms, flipping a coin with her to make decisions and taking conversations way past acceptable terms, this doctor has earned her title. Best friend she is; best friend she will always be.. until I leave Raleigh.

Doctor visit stories are my favorite. This one in particular isn't really funny, but its importance to my life has now made my telling it to you obligatory. That sentence was terrible; I'm sorry. Anyway. I have brought it up to Bonnie at least nine times, but she gets annoyed and makes a comment about how I have no boundaries. Her comment proverbially commences or concludes with, "Really, Stephanie?" Sometimes both if you're lucky or there was cursing involved. If you're ever curious as to whether I've overstepped my boundaries of acceptable things to say in front of Bonnie, just wait for the, "Really, Stephanie?" That's when you know.

Continuing on. Mine and Janice's relationship was a very exclusive, intimate one for quite a while. One you should envy. It's just that we weren't ready to tell our friends, you know? Afraid of their reaction, I guess. Luckily, Janice and I were on the same page. Her with her Doctor-Patient Privilege and me with my fear of Bonnie's disdain.

Due to the bill and insurance being on my father's tab, my parents had a little heads up as to my ever-developing relationship with Janice, or Neecy as I just decided I'd like to call her. It was weird not having Bonnie by my side through the talking and dating stages of the relationship, but I managed. Things had moved fast. We were already official. She was my doctor and I was her patient.. and damn it, we were proud. I knew Bonnie needed to know. She was going to find out eventually, and I needed to be the one to tell her. I didn't know the opportune time or the way to approach the subject, so I kept putting it off.

As it tends to do.. the moment presented itself. I sat in the office that morning; cold, barefooted and barely awake. As I waited for Janice to come in, an extreme feeling of discomfort came over me. I knew I was about to pass out and there was nothing I could do about it. Fearful that Janice would come in to a lifeless body, assume me for dead and bury me alive, I scrambled to find my phone. Thinking my plan was genius in my current state, I mustered the text, "Help." I was still trying to decide who the recipient should be, but I was running out of time. It never crossed my mind that I was in a DOCTOR'S OFFICE and that I am idiot, so my thought process continued. Finally, between the spinning room and my guilt of withholding, I decided to text Bonnie. "Help" was followed by an update as to where I was, why I wasn't clothed and when exactly I planned to recover from my vasovagal episode. I knew it wasn't the perfect timing or method of communication, but it needed to be done. You know, kind of like in high school, you calling your parents on your conscious' behalf to admit that there was underage drinking at the party you're at and you had, unfortunately, fallen victim to peer pressure and finished a Raspberry Smirnoff Ice, but hoped they would forgive you since you were honest enough to tell them and since you heard from your best friend, Casey, that Smirnoff Ice isn't "that bad" of an alcohol beverage after all? Yea, it's just like that.. Except your parent is your sister, the party is the gynecologist's office, the underage drinking is your anticipated promiscuity, the Raspberry Smirnoff Ice is your fifth appointment, your best friend is a Certified Nurse Midwife named Janice and the reassurance she is feeding you is the fact that you're not a whore.

See? All in all, the exact same. Glad we can all relate.

I needed Bonnie that day, just as you need me. Take me to your doctor appointments, world. I am ready. If you pass out, I will waft the ammonia until you come to. If you need to laugh, I will make a racial slur. If you cry, I will turn away until you finish. Yep. I am that good.

Hire me.

Disclaimer: Names, details and occurrences may have been changed to protect innocent others and the innocence of myself.

cranberry cream.

It's the holiday season.

For most seniors, this means tis the season for getting big kid clothes for their big kid jobs already promised to them post December or May graduation.

For some seniors, this means tis the season for joint engagement parties in order to receive Christmas china, personalized ornaments and other holiday gifts that will slowly deteriorate over the years, just like their love for one another. Oops?

For few seniors it means tis the season for convincing their parents that graduate school may, in fact, be a good idea after all.

Finally, for the handful of us seniors left, the holiday season means something completely different. Lucky for us, this time of the year means tis the season for explaining to your extended family that with only one semester left, you still have no idea what you want to do with your life or where you see yourself after graduation. This time of the year means tis the season for justifying for the ninety-seventh time why you are still single and why you have no intentions of changing that anytime soon. Yes, we know you thought he was great. But please woman, just move on. It's time. Then, last, but not least, this time of the year means tis the season for forcing yourself to consider graduate school, but ultimately know that the only thing worse than a desk job is a commitment to at least two more years of writing thirty-two page papers about a paper that someone wrote about another paper someone wrote about a study that someone else conducted in 1999. Oh, and just in case you were wondering, NOTHING exciting happened in 1999.

As I muster the strength for my journey home, I must fully prepare for what is to come. Usually I can depend on Bonnie to take the wheel and steer conversations back to topics where Stephanie's participation is not only unnecessary, but most of the time not even preferred. God, I love those topics. Her ability to take any dying conversation and turn into some tearjerking story of a time when she reorganized a student's schedule so they would be able to graduate sooner than they had originally planned has made basically every family gathering a pleasurable one. That, and complex carbohydrates in buffet form.. but it's whatever. Although Bonnie can remedy any situation, some family members still find a way to get me alone. There I am, sisterless, weak and vulnerable to their life questions. My attempts to flee have failed each time. Apparently yelling "Rape!" is only effective in certain situations.

Since I am getting older, I should probably start taking responsibility for myself and own up to my indecisive lifestyle. At least that's what people are telling me. I mean, why not? Hell. Tis the season, right? Rather than looking for ways out of conversations involving my future, I have decided to premeditate possible answers instead. Everyone look how mature I am.

Not.

The next time I do life, I'm going to be more proactive and awesome, I promise. Until then, though, I'm going to deal with what I have and consider job prospects that I am best suited for given my current strengths and abilities.. or agility, rather... I guess. Right?

Career Option #1: Stripper

Cranberry Cream is my name; prudish thrusting is my game. Many people have seen me dance and automatically assume that I spend my weekends wrapped around some pole. I don't know if it's the skipping in place or the pointing that is only suitable for Saturday Night Fever that gave my dirty little secret away, but sometimes people just know. That will be enough, zippers. I don't need anything else that will slow my roll. My conscience will be enough. Buttons? Hooks? Extremely intricate mesh? No, thank you. Anything that will encroach upon my stripping performance is no friend of mine. I have yet to decide if body paint or individually glued on sequins is more my style. White girl problems. Luckily, I have approximately five months to make a final decision. Thank God for options though, right? America.

Career Option #2: Actress

Porn stars are the brightest stars of them all. This is a completely practical job opportunity for me seeing as how the biggest thrills behind my bedroom door thus far in life have been Tetris challenges and rearranging outfits on my mannequin. If that doesn't scream promiscuity, I can honestly say that I don't know what does. I would like to note, though, that there is one small stigma in this stature of acting. Morals? Nah. Impaired vision? Not quite. While eager audiences everywhere would pay big bucks to watch me be me, I have a feeling you can't make tall socks, Tetris and peanut butter more sexual than they already are. Which, unfortunately for you, is not at all. Like, not at all. I mean, we could always try, but one: peanut allergies are way too common these days, two: I don't do laundry and three: you can't just unsee something. In moments like these, you have to think of the kids.

Career Option #3: Pimp

The greater part of my college years have been spent learning to market and promote companies, products, events and so forth. Now that I have all of those down pat, why not try people too? I have a really magical way of persuading people to do just about anything and an even more magical way of making things seem a lot better than they are. You know how you can get something off of Craigslist and then turn around and sell it on eBay for profit? Yea. I want to do that. Except instead of used furniture, antique lamps or vintage Smurf posters in mint condition, I want to sell humans. Yes, humans. I am talking about making monetary profit off of, otherwise free, homeless men. I've begun to assemble captions and descriptions for my loot of men. The ladies will go wild. You just wait. Yes, I said loot. No, I'm not a pirate. Piracy is Career Option #7.

I mean, how could you refuse a man who is described with the following?

• Cyrus hasn't eaten in twelve days, but the emaciated look is all the rage in New York. He's very trendy.
• Get Thomas while he is hot. Here today, gaunt tomorrow.
• Zach is having a garage sale on his legs and everyone is invited.
• Where do bald men keep their secrets? Jerry, here, has only one secret and I guarantee you it is in his box.
• Juan has almost nothing to be ashamed of. Deme tu dinero y tome lo que usted puede conseguir, perra.
• Ramone is like a super hero whose powers are sweaty palms and bad decisions. However, bad decisions will cost extra.

Tell me you wouldn't give me your money. I mean, please. This shit is gold.

Speaking of.. I got my new gold tooth today. Da boyz gonna be all up in my mouth now. What can I say? Cranberry Cream. The best cream of the plant-derived berry creams.

boughs of polly.

The greater part of my childhood has been spent compiling lists. Lists of things I want, things I don't want, people I will be mad at if they give me the things I don't want, and so on. Maybe I should preface this with I was a slightly demanding child. Just slightly though.

As I think back on some of my Christmas lists over the years, I am truly impressed. I have really outdone myself.

Christmas 1996: Polly Pocket Mansion. I don't know if this is the proper name. I don't know if I ever knew the proper name. I just knew Maggie Wright had it and I wanted one, damn it. I mean, I had Polly Pockets. I had several Polly Pockets. The only problem was that all of my Polly Pockets were insignificant. That sounds harsh, but you have to understand. They were merely commoner Polly Pockets. I wanted more. I needed more. Looking back.. I mean, I guess they were ok. Their homes were of average size. Sufficient, I guess. Acceptable Polly Pocket proportions, if you will. I was content with my Polly Pockets for a long time. I never judged them for their lower socioeconomic status or condemned them for being less than par. Yea. Maggie Wright changed that. I went to her house one snowy afternoon, fell in love with her giant plastic contraption and never looked back. Her Polly Pocket of epic proportions was so degrading. Compared to her Polly, my Pockets were nothing. I left her house that day defeated. I didn't know whether to cry, steal her shit and bolt or seek restitution from my parents for equipping me with pure, for lack of a better word, crap. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush? Wrong. I don't care if I had five Polly Pockets. They were not enough. If they were not Polly Pocket Mansions, they were worthless. Quality over quantity. Maggie had a mansion. Me? I had a trailer park.

Christmas 1998: Machete. Yea, I know what you're thinking. What does a nine year old need with a machete? Here's the thing. Nothing. But how cool would it be if I went back to school after Christmas break and after everyone in the class finished bragging about their new scooters, jump ropes and shit, I got to stand up and tell everyone that clearly I was the only one in the room who had parents that loved them since I got a motherfucking machete. Yea, I would have said it. Just like that too. Now, this may come as a surprise to all three of you, but I was a BAMF. No lies. Casey Carpenter taught me all the cuss words in second grade, so by fourth grade, I was pro. My pupils (yea, they're still called pupils in elementary school) envied my adroit ability to offend both their morals and their mothers with one swift comeback. Fat girl spits game. What can I say? Things to be proud of in my life, Chapter Two. On a completely unrelated topic, I wanted a monogrammed pocketknife for my 15th birthday. Being prepared for street fights was a really big part of childhood, apparently. I'm not sure what brought on my need for weapons, but I blame the Power Rangers. Kimberly Hart, in particular. Pterodactyl Power Coins can only do so much.

Ok, I'm done. Some of you guys are more intrigued by my life than I am. The Whiffenpoofs, one of which will father one of my many children, are about to sing. The list would otherwise ensue. Sorry, guys.

In conclusion to the shortest list ever, I think it's safe to say that I am not exactly prime babysitter material. Between stealing children's toys and my love for sharp objects, you're better off having Morgan watch your children. I'll come over and play the piano for them and eat your granola, but that's about all I can contribute.

Word.