One of the many downfalls of living in Western Pennsylvania is the lack of ocean. We're probably about 6 hours from the nearest oceanic front. So Elise and I decided to remedy that with a trip to Lake Erie. It sounded like the perfect plan, Beach+Sun=FUN!

We set up our tent within 4 minutes at the Erie KOA, and the adventure began. We lavishly applied bug repellant and sat outside eating cake out of Tupperware. Do we know how to rough it or what? (The neighbors, two young lovebirds, were foraging for wood and berries...)

I provided everything (tent, tarp, mattress) and Elise's job was to bring the light. She brought a half-charged flashlight. So we played "Go fish" in the dark; I mistakenly paired an 8 with a 10 and lost the game. At this point in time our neighbors were getting frisky. All that separated us were two nylon walls providing them with a false sense of security. Elise:

"Do you hear that noise?" "What noise?" "It's like a purring..."

I thought the neighbors had just gone too far, but to my surprise it was a raccoon, 2 feet from the door of the tent. I've never really encountered one out of my car before, so I growled at it. My ferocious growl scared off our rabid friend.

Elise and I have probably gone camping together about 10 times, and every time we do, it rains. This trip was no exception to the rule. The rain pelted the tent, preventing me from the coveted dreams of R.E.M. sleep. I awoke at 6:30, and to my amazement, we had made it to the ocean! Unfortunately I soon realized that this water found its way in through a hole in the top of the tent. We spent the next four hours huddled under wet sleeping bags in the car.

There are many ways to define oneself: clothes, hair, makeup, friends... But one that is often overlooked in high school is music. I think it all started for me in 8th grade when Micah, Simon and Anthony listened to heavy metal Christian rock (isn't that a paradox?). I had this huge crush on at least two of them and wanted to be cool. So I bought some P.O.D., some Project 86 and flaunted it. "Whoa you have the new Project 86 CD?!" Oh yeah, I was so cool. I hated the screaming, the screeching guitars made my ears bleed, but I proudly blared it from my headphones, using it as a status symbol.

The change from 8th to 9th grade meant private school to public and it wasn't cool anymore to listen to Christian rock. Rap was the weapon of choice, and junior year we got out driver's licenses and began the battle. A battle of whose speakers could hold out the longest. I don't think I ever won with my factory speakers, but it didn't matter I proudly turned up "Double-You-Ay-Em-Oh! WAMO 106.7" anyway.

The transition from senior year to bottom of the barrel freshman meant yet another change.
At the organizational fair I saw a table manned by a bespectackled blonde boy. I rushed over to the college radio station spot;

I noticed a flyer with all these Indie bands on it (at the time I didn't know
what they were, maybe diseases: Flaming Lips, The Shins, Neutral Milk (Hotel),
Imogen Heap, Sufjan...)

I introduced myself to the guy behind the table as Jessica, "You know any of these bands?" "Umm....The Killers!" So that was that, with one recognition I was in. "See you at the meeting next week Isobel!" He remembered my name! I was in.

I soon realized that anyone who's anyone at college listens to Indie music. I didn't know any, maybe 3 bands and they were even considered borderline mainstream. I was in bad shape. But I slowly trudged onward learning more and more bands, and while it is so painful the first time you listen to a CD without knowing any words, it is certainly educational. Soon I even started hanging out with the tight pants (aka Hipsters, but they don't like being called that). You know, the boys at every college campus with long-ish hair, old-man-plaid shirts, Chuck Taylors, and most importantly tight pants. They have a laid-back sort of vibe and you know they listen to bands that no one has ever heard of. This is the epitome of cool.

But now I'm back home, in the town of my high school, and I've been re-submerged in the sounds of Top-40. Heaven forbid. I'm trying desperately to remain faithful to my worn out goodwill tees, little girl barrettes, ballet flats, and plethora of skirts. It's funny though when I pull up to the gas station I turn a lot more heads than I used to; I suppose everyone is expecting Jay-Z but instead I blast Nick Drake.

For three years I have worked at the same summer job: Wienie World. Contrary to the title, it is not that interesting. Wienie World is situated between the front nine holes and back nine of a local golf course. My weekends begin at 8 am and while some get the luxury of waking up to the smell of coffee, I enjoy a rousing bout of hotdogs encased in sheep intestines! I’d love to be able to tell you that I dance around in a hotdog suit as well, but the owners couldn’t afford me; although it might be better for business. The job isn’t too bad; I get a lot of reading done since customers come in fours and only every 12 minutes. I serve them overpriced hotdogs, stale chips, and flourless pancake-cookies.

The cart boys are useful when a girl has the need to gawk, carry cases of beer or fight off boredom, but aside from them there is no one under the age of 40 on the grounds. In my time spent at the course I have taken note of the customers which range from old to older. Old men are very interesting to watch and I highly recommend it. Their greeting usually consists of “HEY! Johnny!” or “My man! Richie!” but it always follows the same sort of pattern. Also as you may have noticed they always add an “ee” sound to the end of the name. Practically any name can be spruced up in this manner adding the effect of “Buddy!” or “Chummy!”

This species is also perpetually telling jokes. Generally involving a)golf, b)beer c)women d)money or e)all of the above. The men laugh after hearing these jokes, but it is not a genuine laugh, it is more like a I’m-forcing-air-out-of-my-lungs-and-throwing-my-head-back-because-this-is-how-we-interact kind of laugh.

While you may hope so, this form of banter is not reserved for only old men; it is also used on young girls as well. I occasionally hear comments such as: “Whoo! those are some hot buns!” “I’ll have a center cut tube steak,” “I hope my golf game is better than this weather!” None of them are really funny but as a young female on the golf course it is my duty to laugh half heartedly and say “Ok, well you have a good day out there.”

This has only backfired on me once: a man came to the screen and asked for a hotdog and a drink. I came through on the hotdog and forgot about the drink. I should also mention that there is a very boisterous ice machine that the golfers have to yell over so when the man quietly requested a Powerade again I just assumed it was another crappy joke, laughed and said “Yeah, have a good day out there!”

A few years back I got in this really bad car accident, it was like bumper cars except it was just me and a deer. Afterwards I was pretty messed up, one leg was longer than the other and my neck was over extended or something etc. So the insurance paid for everything and that included a Tempur-Pedic pillow, a back support, and a personal masseur (proper term for a man who gives massages professionally). His name is Yakoff, no joke, and he's very old and Russian. So every time I would get these massages I'd never know whether or not to get naked. The first time I just left my two necessary pieces on and sort of stood there. I didn't realize I was supposed to get under the sheet. "Ready?" he said, and without warning opened the door. When he saw me he shut it again and mumbled something about the sheet, so I willingly got under. "Ready?" he said again and came in. He then informed me that I was only supposed to have kept one of those necessary pieces on. So I awkwardly unhooked and with one swift motion flung it across the room. That was the start of a beautifully awkward relationship.

The next few sessions we talked a lot. I now know that you aren't really supposed to converse with your masseur, just sort of lay there and let him work magic. I wish I had known that earlier because I know all about his daughter and her schooling, "She very smart," and his nephew who recently had a birthday party; he also likes to rollerskate. After the first few conversations I found out about the no-talking rule, but I was hooked, he just assumed we would pick up our conversation where we left off! I even tried the silent treatment, but then he'd just ask "How schooool?" and "Good" wasn't an acceptable answer because Yakoff went on "How your mom?" and on "What you doing this summer?" and on "What else new?"
Needless to say, the insurance money ran out and so did my massages.