Awkward Turtle

Serious Advice for a Serious Gap Year

Shannan Scarselletta — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 00:00:00 -0500

Since the economy has gone down faster than Jenna Jameson at “Action!,” for many students, the meaning of “The Gap Year” has changed from the title of a potential khaki-zombie film about the year-long attempt of a few brave leather-clad heroes to stave off an epidemic of cable knit sweaters of various, yet still somehow generic muted hues — to the potential horrifying reality of 365 days spent finding a passion, a job, an income, and — dear God, no, anything but that — an understanding of “yourself.”

Why Sexy People Aren’t Often Homeless

Shannan Scarselletta — Mon, 27 Oct 2008 00:00:00 -0400

Nothing makes me feel more like a failed sexual predator than the interview process. I first discover this cute little business on Careernet, the Match.com of the desperate and jobless. Her description catches my eye with words like, “exciting,” “experienced,” and “willing to take any major” (you saucy minx, I know what that means). After exchanging a couple emails explicitly describing how my past experience has prepared me to fulfill her every need and each secret desire, she coyly holds off for a few days.

Do I call her? Did she forget about me? Am I not good enough? Once I begin to convince myself I never needed her in the first place, the cheeky dame offers to meet me somewhere — somewhere private.

I Freaking Hate Friendship

Shannan Scarselletta — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 00:00:00 -0400

“Hey, I was wondering if you’d like to get dinner on Saturday. We’ll eat at the Boatyard after we go bowling, and before we rent your favorite movie that we both know every word to. Then we can cuddle for hours and talk about our childhoods and our future plans, our insecurities and our wildest dreams. I can tell you that I got fat on Little Debbie Zebra Cakes, and we can spend all night driving around in hot pursuit of those delicious black and white striped nuggets of love. After discovering them in the dark corner of a 24-hour mom and pop store, we can park on an escarpment to watch the sunrise and laugh for hours about how no one is as cool as we are. Sound good? Alright, dude, see you at four. Imaginary high five!”

Confessions of a Teenage Civil War Reenactor

Shannan Scarselletta — Thu, 18 Sep 2008 00:00:00 -0400

Lara was what my mom called, “in need of a hug from Jesus.” My Type A football player of a brother called her “deranged,” but I knew he secretly wanted to get in her Jncos. If life was directed by John Hughes, she would have sat in the back left corner of the bus, burning lighter marks into her wrist and trying desperately to disappear behind her thigh-high military boots until high school passed. But every day she sat in the front next to my crew of kiddie-pop singing 8th graders. And every day, I wondered how she stayed so pale in the summer, if she used eyeliner or black acrylic paint, how much it hurt to push those safety pins through the extraneous skin of her fingers, and how the hell I could become her.

I Freaking Love Friendship.

Shannan Scarselletta — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 00:00:00 -0400

Ah, the first week of my last year at Cornell. Let’s spend it conspicuously uncomfortable in places I don’t belong. For starters, let’s become one with nature and the abundance of bathing-suit-slippage at the gorges; then we can develop an inappropriate fascination with the 70-year-old man who plays the water glasses at the Ithaca Farmer’s Market; and let’s top it off by crashing my first ever sorority/fraternity open bar tab at that illustrious, elegant establishment, Dino’s.

In preparation for my first mixer, I did an Olympic-worthy running jump into my skinniest pair of skinny jeans and shimmied my way into an offensively sparkly halter-top from freshman year … of high school. Admittedly, my sex appeal peaked early. I was camouflaged. I was ready.

Chasing Corpanga: Relationships on Campus

Shannan Scarselletta — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 00:00:00 -0400

During my childhood, I was lucky enough to watch one of the most beautiful relationships unfold before my eyes. It filled me with such hope that perhaps I, too, could find love in kindergarten with the boy next door: a true love that would last through the trials of puberty and eventually lead to a wonderful marriage. I spent many silent dinners with my parents in awe of the tried-and-true relationship before me. Every day, I thank God and basic cable for introducing me and my generation to the unflinching devotion of history’s most passionate lovers: Corey and Topanga.

Sweaty Palms and Chafing: An Ode to Summa Time

Shannan Scarselletta — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 00:00:00 -0400

Call me Jared Leto, but I despise spring. It’s partially because joy is spreading faster than Hanna Montana fever, and whenever I see an architecture student smile, I know there’s an English major out there crying just to maintain a cosmic balance. To a certain degree, it’s because Ithaca’s spring is a seasonal skort; look, spring, skorts are a creepy and confusing blurring of categorical boundaries. Don’t be a skort — I don’t appreciate getting a sunburn whilst freezing my ass off. But mostly it’s because spring just isn’t summer, and, if From Justin to Kelly taught me anything, it’s that there’s oh, so much awkwardlicious fun to be had in the summer sun.

‘Oh My God, It’s Airborne!’

Shannan Scarselletta — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 00:00:00 -0400

Syphilis is kind of funny. And the fact that Cornell had to distribute a mass e-mail painting a bare-bones picture of the recent syph outbreak is downright hysterical (alas, if only we could “Reply All”). But the real gem is the simultaneity of the syph outbreak and the rise of bizarre Collegetown Creeper-esque crime. Correlated? Sure. Cause-ated? God, I hope so.

Personas Non Gratas

Shannan Scarselletta — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 00:00:00 -0400

In honor of the week after spring break, I've compiled a travel guide through the sun-burned skulls of some of my favorite post-vaca characters.

1. The Facebook Pornstar

Her tell: More Facebook albums than tan lines.

Her tagline: "Discretion? Oooh, sounds like a brand of vodka."

The Facebook Pornstar lives by a strict code: 1) detagging is for ugly pictures only, and 2) the wetter the wifebeater, the better the profile picture.

You Reap What You Sow

Shannan Scarselletta — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 00:00:00 -0500

The first boy I ever kissed was a catch. No, seriously. I caught him. Fool tried to escape through the woods in my backyard. Come on, really? If you’re being pursued by Jaws, you wouldn’t pencil dive into the water. Similarly, if you’re being pursued by a nine year-old female version of Survivorman, you should probably avoid the wooded regions. I was an easy 5’6” and my direction changes had yet to be weighed down by puberty-induced lady-mounds. Mark, a whopping 4’9” pile of marshmallow weighing in at a buck ten, didn’t even challenge me.

At the ripe age of nine, I had already been taught the fundamental code of the cavewoman: we Amazons had to be a little more proactive in the capture and detainment of our clutch-sized carry-on boy-toys.

The Dry Season

Shannan Scarselletta — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 00:00:00 -0500

“The first couple years of college are just an extension of freshmen orientation week. You’re bombarded and thrilled with the plethora and availability of beer; Natty Ice is staring you down at frat parties with open legs and a come hither look, completely free with no strings attached. Busch is one fake ID and some sweet-talking away from packing your fridge. And after you got about six in you, even Pabst starts tasting good. Sure, the last time you really enjoyed being drunk — and didn't wake up with a hangover and a three-hour date with the confessional booth — was with Dogfish. But it's 10 bucks for a six. Natty will do; you’ll deal with the consequences in the morning.

Chicken Soup for the Wounded Pride

Shannan Scarselletta — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 00:00:00 -0500

“So, I guess I’ll see you around?”

No … you um, you just broke up with me. And I wasn’t even sure we were actually dating. I felt like P. Diddy getting voted out of the band. Hold the phone — wasn’t I the one running this show?

I snapped my cell shut, more shocked, confuse and disappointed than the first time I found out the guy who sang “Never Gonna Give You Up” was a pasty, redheaded teenager. I just got dumped for the first time ever, and I had no idea how to respond. How was I supposed to deal with this? Think Shannan, what would Streetfighter do?

Too Sexy for my Sweatpants

Shannan Scarselletta — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 00:00:00 -0500

“You must be a model or something.” I was wearing a jersey, shorts past my knees, sandals and socks. I looked down at my half-devoured chicken hoagie. Look, I’m not exactly perceptive — up until the night of my parents’ wedding reception, I had been under the distinct impression that my stepdad was black. He’s Polish. But I realized that this stranger’s powers of perception rivaled my own.

I turned around to be face-to-chest with a 5’7” coke fiend with an obvious case of the jitters. I would’ve thought he was joking, but the unguarded lust in his one steady eye told me this man was sincere. Like most of the lady-kind, I know that genuine compliments are as rare as leftovers at WeightWatchers, so I decided to fan the fire.

People That Are Awesome

Shannan Scarselletta — Thu, 25 Oct 2007 00:00:00 -0400

She had always felt different from her brother. It wasn’t because she was adopted — they had been her family for as long as she could remember — but she was just different. One day, when she received an invitation to visit the new toy factory, she and her brother found out how unusual she really was.

The owners of the toy factory acted like they knew her. When they revealed themselves to be white-bodied aliens wearing people suits, she tried in vain to escape. Finally she came to realize, to remember what she had always known somewhere inside her. She, too, was a white-bodied alien. They had returned for her.

Game Killers

Shannan Scarselletta — Thu, 11 Oct 2007 00:00:00 -0400

At 20 years of age, I was by far the oldest girl in a skeevy bar in Boston. I had maturity, an Ivy League education, a reliable source of income and a leopard print dress on my side. And with a witty pick up line like, “Do you guys feel like you’re swimming in jail bait here?” the boy had no chance. He had to drop digits. And, after three months of uncharacteristic and surprisingly successful game, I had only suffered a few morning-after face-plants and unprovoked sweat-fests, and had redeemed myself with surprise tickets to a Red Sox game. Yes, I was smoother than John Legend in silk drawers, and I had the boy on lock.

Oh My God, Are You Wearing Jellies?!

Shannan Scarselletta — Thu, 27 Sep 2007 00:00:00 -0400

My alarm was set to play the 69 Boys’ masterpiece “Tootsee Roll” at 7 a.m. My breakfast consisted of three bowls of Wheaties and a warm-up lap around the house. My Walkman already held my own Lifetime Original Movie soundtrack: Jock Jams Volume 1. And my yellow Smile Jesus Loves You lunch box contained a Powerbar, an All Sport and a note from Mom that read, “Either come home with a victory, or don’t bother coming home.”

It was Olympic Day, and utter domination was in the air.

10 Questions with the Mean Ugly Guy

Shannan Scarselletta — Thu, 13 Sep 2007 00:00:00 -0400

“Be careful not to trip over your boobs. Seriously, save Frederick’s for when the lights are off.”

I probably deserved it. I had aimed for Jenna Jameson and landed somewhere on Dolly Parton. I’d broken the cardinal rule of Tig-O-Bittie-dom: never, ever wear a borrowed shirt in public, especially if said lender plasters her Donlon walls with posters of Mariah, Paris and of course, her own Bon Ton quality glamour shots. But I had been convinced by a hoard of floormates (whose chests resembled poorly replaced divots) to liberate my sand dunes of glory.

Granddaddy of Game

Shannan Scarselletta — Thu, 30 Aug 2007 01:00:00 -0400

It was the eve of the year 2005. While most of my less-fortunate fellow high school seniors were huddled together, chugging pee-colored beverages in freezing garages of sin, giggling over who was going to “do work” at midnight with whom, I was relaxing with a tall glass of Welch’s best in my Grandfather’s plush 65+ community. My mom had decided to surprise my 90-year-old grandfather in his home on New Years, so we hopped a flight to Old People, Fl., fully prepared to get crunk.

It Seemed Like a Really Good Idea at the Time...

Shannan Scarselletta — Wed, 25 Apr 2007 01:06:21 -0400

Deckhead:

Awkward Turtle

Body:

It happens to the best of us, and by the best of us, I mean me.

One minute, you’re quietly writing a paper in your dorm room in Donlon. The next, you are parading the halls with 37 pages of freshly printed haikus and taping them to the front of every door, next to a collage of you, your roommate and downloaded pictures of plus-size porn. One minute, you’re getting dressed for practice, the next, you’re unrecognizable in a head-to-toe black Under Armor suit, roundhouse kicking petrified freshmen, and responding only when referred to as “The North Campus Ninja.”

Aaannd She Threw Up In Her Purse

Shannan Scarselletta — Wed, 11 Apr 2007 01:12:35 -0400

Deckhead:

Awkward Turtle

Body:

She was the only other female in my brother’s posse of yuppie post-grads. To her, this meant we were immediately close-talking, arm-linking, hair-touching best friends. To me, this meant if we experienced the apocalypse, and only my brother’s third floor condo in South Boston survived, I could push the whole “repopulating the earth” responsibility off to someone else. She came complete with a conversationally slutty boyfriend; you know, the stud who can wink with both eyes, who hugs you long before you’re comfortable with pressing your lady humps against him and who has the uncanny ability to turn everything from Capri Sun to Charlotte’s Web into a sexual innuendo. He’s the guy who, even under the watchful eye of his girlfriend, rivals God Himself in ability to knock up girls solely through dialogue.