How it all Started

Where was my roommate Cate when I needed her? Four years ago, I should have made a vision board. It should have been decorated with images of Manhattan, Moet, Manolo Blahniks and smiling emoticons. Instead, I meandered through college like it were a Ke$ha song, always showing up to class on time with just enough baby powder to kill the smell of Jack Daniel's and cologne. I moved to Boston for school immediately after graduation. I managed to study hard (Dean's list recipient, cough cough) yet always kept enough time to play harder. I spent a semester living in a hotel where the doormen and concierge knew me by first name, a summer on the top floor of a Kenmore square brownstone, and my last year concluded on the 23rd floor of a 4-bedroom-apartment overlooking the Charles River. It was quite the experience. It was my third year of school that landed me on the Cape for a summer. Like all things that leave you in a tail-spin, it was a love story gone wrong. One of the only people that I could ever imagine seeing our names together on a government document, left me high and dry.... devastated. It was ok after a month or two... I had managed to get out of bed enough times to show up unprepared to exams, unshowered for work, and to grab just enough candy from my roomates' holiday care packages to help gain the weight that would cost me two whole jean sizes... all in all, it was a mere cross between a clusterfuck and a shitshow. Of course, I phoned home and packed up all 36 pairs of shoes, Egyptian cotton sheets, 6 or so self help books and headed home with a sub-par GPA and just enough money to buy 5 or so bottles of Yellow Tail merlot and a pizza. My family, unaware of my pain over One-True-Love, comfortably converted the smallest room in the house (my grandfather's old workshop) into a lovely bedroom with a bureau, a double bed and a ceiling fan that barely scraped the top of my head when I were wearing heels, which was always. It is safe to say that I learned after about 6 or so times that the fan had to be shut off before I took my shirt off. Pavlov should be so proud.

Luckily I landed a job at a high-end restaurant where I smiled and covered up my disdain for the world with an attempt at wit and a fluffed knowledge for wine and Epicurean delights. I subtly flirted with 60-something-year-old scotch drinkers at an attempt for a 20 percent tip, while their straw-haired, fake breasted wives glared disapprovingly. I made more money than I could spend and spent my days oiled-up on the beach, fighting the previous night's hangover. It was mid-July when I realized that my current boyfriend at the time, we'll call him slimy-blonde-wealthy-douche (which deserves no capitalization) ... was indeed married throughout our whole 3 month relationship. This did not bother me, due to the fact that we only dated because he never called me after 6 pm and my only use for  him was an attempt at forgetting One-True-Love. Of course it did not work and I would have rather sunbathed nude in front of an oncoming Amtrak instead of ever going through the whole ordeal with One-True-Love again... alas, the slimy-blonde-wealthy-douche makes me ill to this day and karma will bite him in his lying ass eventually. Although my best friend, we'll call him Handsome-Loyal-Bestie, did recently see him at the Patriot's play-off game where Handsome-Loyal-Bestie told him to "Die young" and "You got fat." Such a good friend.

After my three months of debauchery and giggles, I headed back to school where I made an attempt at finishing my degree. Living in a brand-new apartment with 3 thrill-seeking, amazing, brilliant, gorgeous girls should barely be considered attaining an education... yet they all managed to pull it off, except for me. My darling academic advisor gently pulled me aside and told me that my internship credits were not fulfilled and that I would need another semester of school. I still bought the eco-friendly, ugly, recyclable graduation gown, drank champagne and posed for pictures, but I would still need to complete my internship. In a round-about-ish way, this is why I am now, back on the Cape. I am working in a mental health facility, fitting, I agree. After four years of a Chelsea Handler novel, the government cut my allowance and pushed me out on my derriere quicker than Fran Drescher in the opening cartoon of "The Nanny." I was heart-broken. Once again, Nana made my bed for me, stocked up on organic peanut butter, Rodney Strong Cabernet and low fat cottage cheese and awaited my arrival.

Here I am. Living with my grandmother. In a place where Dunkin' Donuts is popular, UGGs are just as cool as stilettos, and apparently nobody got the Cash-For-Clunkers memo. A Saturday night consists of a local bar where patrons request Oasis' 'wonderwall' from the cover band and sing along with their Michelob Ultras in hand. It is not as dismal as I am playing it out, really. It is an honest place, with fantastic people. It is comfortable and safe, the only hard feeling is the realization that I AM Sandra Bullock from Hope Floats.... only Harry Connick Jr. is nowhere to be found and my husband never ended our marriage on a mid-day talk-show. Instead my attempt at a rebound relationship ended in a bitter breakup over my choice of underwear... What is exactly wrong with boyshorts? It's 2012 people.... women can have babies in their bathtubs, vote, read, get tattoos on their wrists and still manage to get jobs... but apparently I can not opt for a comfortable alternative to the ever-popular ass-riding-sanitary-questioning thong....

Follow along if you would like to partake in the entire, unplanned, awkward moment that is in-fact my existence. Lessons learned on how a duchess can survive the small-town life on a deserted island. Cheers.