My sister Sam, her friend Barb, and roommate Tara and I decided to take a lovely dinner outing the night before my beloved sis left for her abroad experience in Singapore. Sam wanted to go for a good old fashioned American meal, so we picked a cute little restaurant with a light-hearted atmosphere and great decor.

The four of us ladies sat outside in the musty Atlanta air, after it had rained all day long, and ordered bread basket after bread basket and lots of other tasty food. We each thought our food was fantastic and we laughed uncontrollably telling stories about baseball games and so on and so forth. Barb, my sisters friend, is Italian, and had just spent a month in Italy with her family. She was chatting about her jet lag, and how she was thrown off with her sleep patterns. Tara was laughing non stop, I think it was just because she drank too much soda. My sis, Sam, was talking about her 17 hour flight to Singapore and if she will be able to bear the flight.

After our fabulous meal, and as Sam’s last night in Atlanta, she decided to walk down the street towards a local gelato place. We entered the gelateria and waited behind a few younger boys and their mom. One of the boys started to mock my friends and I. We were talking about how much we loved chocolate, and the sprinkle cone, and how to say Stratietella in a beautiful Italian accent. This young boy, who had braces, and had his hair cut circa 1995, or also known as the “bowl cut”, yelled out “I Love Cannolis”, after I had spoken out loud saying how much I loved Cannolis. With my own gut instinct and big mouth I spoke back to young boy with a witty comeback of “Oh! You’re cute!” I guess I wasn’t so witty afterall.

Then, after my embarrassing comment I turned to him and started to talk about if he liked his shell of his Cannolis to be chocolate or plain waffle flavor. I think this young boy was a little taken a back, and he said chocolate off a whim. Tara, Barb, Sam and I proceeded to order our gelato and the young boy and his friends kept mocking us. I felt like I was playing the repeat after me game. I Like Chocolate…no I like Chocolate. It was unbelievable. My sister was giggling, Tara was on the floor roaring with laughter, and Barb was just trying to compose herself.

The young boy then proceeded to say that ice cream was creamy ice. He was so smart. He then told me that he knew everything. Of course he did. The young boys mother then chimed in saying “Ok Brad, that’s enough!” I turned around and smiled, knowing that the young boy wasn’t as tough as he thought he was. After the creamy ice comment and a little discipline from his mother I decided to push him a little more. I said, “my dad calls ice cream Screaming Ice.”

“SCREAMING ICE? Ice cream doesn’t have a mouth!” Said the young boys friend who was a little big pudgy. The friend waddled across the gelateria with 4 mounds of ice cream on top of his large rainbow sprinkled covered cone and started to lecture me on ice cream, and how it can’t scream, and ice cream doesn’t have a mouth, so I was wrong…or my dad was wrong. I stood with my mouth wide open as I watched these little boys interact with each other. I didn’t have a come back other then looking to my friends, giving them a look of “WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” and of course the necessary uncomfortable laugh.

After all of these interesting interactions another one of the friends asked me how old I was, but he gave me attitude that took me a few seconds to process the question. I told him that I was 23, and old. He said, “I am tan…” or that is what I thought he said. My first reaction was that he was making fun of how tan I was, but then he said “TEN” again and I understood his response to my response of being old and 23. The boy then kept repeating himself saying “I am Ten. I am Ten.” I wasn’t sure how to react other then embellishing on OH! How old he was. I couldn’t believe myself, or these young boys.

At this point all four of us girls were laughing, and trying to eat our “Screaming Ice”. The boys at this point, had sauntered out of the gelateria with the mom pushing them all from behind. They were gone, but their voices and insults had not stopped. I could still hear them talking about ice cream, and cannolis, and older girls, and so on and so forth. They just would not stop, I guess it was a teenage boy thing.

The girls and I followed a few minutes behind the boys and their mom, to sit outside on the park bench. Immediately as we walked outside the young boy who was taunting us just moments earlier started to say something else that I couldn’t quite make out. Only 5 seconds after he opened his mouth, his mom pushed him in the direction towards their car and the group of young boys made their way away from my girls and I. We were all thrilled to know that we wouldn’t have to deal with younger boys who were high on themselves and only in-the-know about their ice cream knowledge.

We finished up our gelato on the park bench, still shaking our heads after our fun encounters with the young boys and their “Screaming Ice” cream comments. I still think it was their attempt to hit on the older girls, too bad they weren’t successful.

My Family and I sometimes take our vacations in the south of Florida. This past weekend my sister and I met my parents in Del Ray Beach, old people heaven. We normally revolve our vacation time together around the beach, swimming in the ocean, an occasional workout, and of course which restaurant we will eat at for dinner.

My sister and I love to pick where we go to dinner, especially when we go Florida. There are a few places that we wouldn’t be able to live without, one of those places being Cubana, a Mexican type place with amazing plantain chips and incredible sangria.

The first night on our Florida family vacation, minus my brother because he is off at camp in Wisconsin probably kicking a soccer ball around, we decided to go to Cubana. My mom, sister, dad, and I all piled into our white car -obviously our car is white, we are in Florida, and if your car is not white you are not a true Floridian - and we took off along the beach towards Atlantic Ave.

It was a hot summer evening and the four of us sat at a great table near the street so we could chat and people watch, our favorite activity other then eating. We ordered a few appetizers, a large pitcher of sangria and a few iced teas for the table. As we were sipping on our sangrias and chugging down our iced teas my mom started to chew her ice. My dad immediately turns to me and starts to shake his head and laugh. I immediately started laughing, and my mom was completely clueless as to what my dad and I were laughing about.  My sister didn’t want to be part of this conversation, because she too knew where this conversation was headed; she was the only smart one at the table and stayed out it.

I knew exactly what my dad was going to say before he even said a word. My dad turned to my mom and goes “Sue…you can’t crunch your ice. You know what that means?” My dad said the word means with a weird drawn out accent to make sure my mom would respond. My mom started to laugh, but it was one of those confused laughs to try and cover up what is going on when you really have no idea.

My then turned to my sister and asked her if she knows what he is talking about. My sister sat in her chair staring at the pitcher of sangria and gave my dad a quick smile; she didn’t want to get involved. I immediately said “MOM! When you crunch your ice it means you are sexually frustrated!” My dad threw up his hands and screamed “YEAH SUE!”

My mom didn’t quite know what to do, and my mom just said something along the lines of “I am not sexually frustrated…don’t look at me.” It was hysterical. We were all laughing, to the point where I think all four of us were actually crying. My mom sat at the table after we all chit chatted about how crunching your ice was an indication that you were indeed frustrated, and still she crunched her ice all night long, which you know drove my dad insane.   All I could do was sit at the table and enjoy watching this conversation unfold, and give my sister quick glances that showed off all my amusement.

My dad’s expressions and my mom’s cluelessness and my sisters choice to stay out of the conversation, all went hand in hand with our lovely Mexicana meal. It was a fabulous dinner conversation, which only made my Florida vacation more interseting. I couldn’t have asked for a more entertaining convo with my parents present.  Chewing on my ice will never be the same.  I guess the next time I crunch on a piece of ice I will have to think to myself, am I sexually frustrated?

When I first stepped foot into the residence hall in Buenos Aires, Argentina when I went to visit my cousin Alex, I was immediately greeted by a friendly Brazilian girl. She spoke to me in fast but beautiful Portuguese, all of which I understood not one word of. She paused, looked at me, and said “Oh you are the American girl Dee right? NOT the Brazilian girl”, in perfect English. I was shocked her English was so flawless. We immediately became great friends.

We walked around Buenos Aires together, went to musuems together, went shopping together, traveled to the beaches of Uruguay together, and so much more. We were buddies and our lives were fabulous. My new best Brazilian friend’s name was Melori. She told everyone to call her Mel. I loved trying to practice my Spanish with her as we sauntered throughout the city, but Mel’s favorite topic of conversation was talking like a valley girl.

Mel and I sat at table after table and ate amazing steak after empanadas after more fried South American goodness and talked about ‘how to talk like a valley girl’. Mel wanted to be like the cute American girls, who spoke like they were from “the valley”, she also wanted to dress in crop top shirts and short short jean skirts. Oh, don’t forget her incredibly high heeled wedge shoes. I adored her outrageousness, as well as her uniqueness. Mel wasn’t afraid to be herself, or a valley girl, which she thought, was herself.

Mel was fluent in Spanish, English, German, and obviously her own native tongue, and she was teaching herself how to speak Italian. Mel and I would sit at dinner and she would ask questions about speech, and valley girl talk, and jokes, and being blonde, and being American, and how to dress like Britney Spears. I was mesmerized with her interest in valley girl-isms. I laughed at her accent and her new phrases that she looked up on PerezHilton.com. I think her favorite phrase though was “Oh My God”! and “Like…no way”!?!

Every dinner we had together, and every conversation we had about being more “valley”, I wanted more and more to be like Mel and have her awesome valley girl accent, that sometimes sounded really weird because of her underlying small Brazilian accent.

After I had countless amounts of meals with Mel, and after the first month I was in Buenos Aires with her, she was starting to correct me, and tell me that my “valley talk” was slipping. Ever since then I haven’t stopped talking like a “valley girl”. Mel would say Buena Chica! But all my other friends tell me to hear myself speak and then stop talking, or else I am destined to leave the room. Too bad Mel isn’t around here to defend against my down to earth and normal speaking friends. Mel would have given them a run for their money.

I spent about 2 and 1/2 weeks in Greece last summer. I went with two of my best girlfriends. The three of us picked 3 islands that we wanted to venture through, and of course party on. We picked Mykonos, Ios, and Santorini. Our first destination was the party island of Mykonos.

We arrived on this amazing, picturesque island and immediately knew that we were going to have some fun. We had brought our skimpy Brazilian Bikini’s…wait, I brought my tiny weeny bikini, while my two friends, Eb and Court, brought their normal full bottomed bikini’s. We unloaded all of our “equipment” into our tent- yes we stayed in a tent- and decided that there was nothing else to do on this island other then, tan, sit in the sun, drink a few cocktails, and mingle and meet some fun people to party with later on in the evening.

We put on our suits, grabbed our tanning oils, water bottles, and of course our books, that to our dismay we did not read a single page, ever, and our portable iPod player. We needed our jams on the beach, even though every outside bar was playing some techno European hit, that we Americans just sort of brushed off our shoulders and labeled the song as “corny” or “just not our type”.

We plopped down on the sandy beach, turned on some tunes, applied our tanning oil, and then proceeded to do what all the other people on the beach did, take our tops off, turn onto our stomachs and talk about who was tanner, and whose bathing suit was cuter, and which drunk girl sitting under the umbrella 5 feet away from us was going to fall while walking to dip into the ocean, trying to cover her topless body.

All day Eb, Court, and I would hysterically laugh at all the men who had to show off their impressive bodies with their Mankinis, or man-thongs, or better yet, the very few who bore it all and was wearing absolutely nothing but a few layers of tanning oil. We were like middle school girls talking, or always glaring at someone. None of us seemed to peel our eyes away from these Greek men’s bodies, but we would chuckle at the sight of their jungle print Speedo.

Our first dinner on the island of Mykonos, the three of us squeezed into a booth near the ocean and watched the water crash against the infamous windmills on this island. It was beautiful and our topic of conversation was beautiful as well: Men in Speedos, or what we liked to call Mankinis.

We shamelessly chit chatted about what men’s speedos we liked the most, or what we didn’t like, or if we thought it was appropriate for these men to even be wearing Mankinis. We gushed about the men who thought they were sexy enough to wear Man Thongs to the beach, which we all concluded was totally unappealing. However, I guess these men who wore these revealing suits, didn’t care, their bodies were of perfection…ones of which we called The Greek God! Yum Yum.

Our five course meal of Greek Salads, Focccia Bread, Mussels, more bread, and of course desert was in good company. At the end of our enormous meal we all had come to a conclusion that it was okay for men with good bodies to wear Mankinis, but NOT Man Thongs. We liked the men who wore normal board shorts, but those were rare on this exotic Greek Island.

By the end of our ridiculous conversation about Mankinis I decided that I thought they weren’t all that bad. However, men should wear them with discretion, because us innocent eyed girls do not know what to expect. The Greek Islands definitely changed Eb, Court, and my opinion on what was beach appropriate. I guess Mankinis are okay outside of America, and the exotic feel of “less is more” is the motto of the Greek Isles…By the end of our Greek Island escapades I had adopted that motto to one of my own.

I can clearly remember the day that one of my best friends and I decided that since we both had last names that no one could ever seem to pronounce correctly, that we would look up in the yellow pages all of the horrible last names that some people have. I know this seems a little malicious, but when you have a last name like Weintraub or Krakauer, which seems totally normal, but people the majority of the time call you Weiner-traub, or Ween-traub, or better yet Wveiner-traub, I would always wonder where did these people see these extra letters? I never quite understood. So as my friend (Krakauer- Krakface, Krakhead, Krak-a-lack…the list goes on) and I looked up bad last names and would crack up every three seconds at someone who was so unfortunate to have the last name like Whitehead or Weiner, we realized our last names weren’t all that bad after all.

Whenever I am with this friend, and whom ever else we are at dinner with for that matter, we always seem to talk about what we like to call “The case of the bad last names”. We girls would sit around the dinner table, bread basket within arms reach and laugh about who butchers our last names, or for some of my friends, we talk about how fortunate they are to have last names like Young, Mitchell, or Taylor. These friends of mine are the lucky ones. Everyone can pronounce their last names, and they never seem to have any bad nicknames that play off of their last name.

The laughter always springs to hysteria when I talk about what the telemarketers or people I don’t know think my last name really is. I would always say, thank goodness my last name isn’t something worse. My girls and I would then run through the list of all of our friends with last names that are bad, which to be honest, are very few. I think at a lot of our dinner chats, my last name butchered, came out to be in the running for the #1 worst last name.

Now, when all of my girlfriends and I get to talking, we normally bring up boys…so in turn, we always talk about which guys we have dated or liked that have last names that are a little wacky. One of my friends has dated guys with solely American, simple last names like Jones or Samuels. A few of my other friends have dated guys who had some pretty funny nicknames that play off their last name, but nothing too outrageous. Another friend strictly dates guys with last names that have Jr. on the end, or the III, or something that sounds incredibly prestigious, or even stuffy for that matter. Then there was me, who during this conversation would throw around some last names that will make the list of last names that I should never doodle my first name with.

My girls and I would giggle and laugh with excitement when would we recite our crushes last name with our first name. I know this sounds incredibly middle school, but we always had fun doing it. Of course if our crush had a so called “bad” last name then we would all look around the table, and give our friend the look of…nope, that isn’t going to work. For example, my friend liked a guy with the last name of Wiggle. Our dinner would be totally ruined if our friend said I want to be the future Mrs. Sarah Wiggle. HA! Not even an option.

But I don’t think anything is worse then a guy that I liked in college. Besides the fact that we played cat and mouse, and my friends didn’t really like him, but his last name was Kummer. My friends would always say, Dee…no matter what, and no matter how much we don’t approve of this so called “thing” you two have, think about it…his last name is K U M M E R. I would sit at these dinner convo’s and laugh to myself, but then panic, because my friends did make a good point.

After my humiliation of the guy’s last name that I was apparently dating, or not dating, we would chat about what we think would be the worst last name to have on planet earth. My girlfriends and I would come up with some pretty ridiculous last names. We just hoped after our conversation that no one sitting around us had that last name, or for our sake, anyone had that last name.

After my friends and I would talk about these bad last names, I think we all felt a little guilty about talking about less fortunate people than ourselves. Hey…atleast having a bad last name gives you good conversation starter!

(Dedicated to my dear friend L. Krakauer!)

Whenever I was traveling through Europe, South America or Israel, I always found myself in a predicament upon meeting new people and whether or not it was appropriate to initiate the American standard form of greeting- the handshake- or to conform to my foreign customs and lean in for the kiss on the cheek. I always felt awkward when meeting new people in countries other then my own, because I never knew if they would just say hello, shake my hand, hug me, kiss me, or double kiss me…I was always getting confused.

I must say however, that I prefer the kiss on the cheek to any other form of greeting. I think that the double kiss, meaning both cheeks are given some attention, is incredibly exciting, especially when meeting a cute new man that looks like he belongs on the side of a billboard, instead of standing next to you in your living room. The kiss on the cheek to me, always seemed much more personal, while at the same time enticing to both parties.

The kiss on the cheek debate was brought up during many of my cafe rendezvous’s with my friends in Israel. My girls, what we liked to call ourselves, would sit around a small cafe table, outside, and debate whether or not the kiss on the cheek was weird, awkward, okay, acceptable, or even respectful. Some of my friends thought that the kiss on the cheek with a total stranger was a bit odd, but of course with your already established relationship with a friend, it was totally normal to lean in and kiss one another. Some of my friends thought that the custom of kissing each other was great, and I completely agreed. Others thought nothing of it at all.

Once we beat the idea of kissing a stranger to say hello into the ground, we would talk about the topic of whether or not its okay for two men to kiss one another. In foreign countries men are much more endearing with one another and it is perfectly okay to kiss and hug without feeling like their manhood is at stake. My man friends disagreed with this idea completely (they are American). The guys that I hung out with, never even thought about kissing one another, a hug here or there on a special occasion was fine, however, there was no chance that their faces were coming that close together without having an incredibly embellished excuse.

The kiss on the cheek conversation would never end without someone throwing a new twist to the idea, or talking about a story that happened to them that contradicted how they felt about going in for the kill. When I say kill, I mean to say the initial Hello, with a softer, more foreign way of introducing yourself. So after the man kissing man convo was finished and our guy friends were officially sick of the topics, we girls would continue discussing in further detail about girls kissing girls (which was completely normal), double kiss kissing, the goodbye kiss, and or the horrifying kiss on the mouth with the old grandparent who you haven’t seen in years and who also doesn’t speak a lick of English.

As we all sat and conversed about one of our favorite topics, we agreed 100% of the time that when we meet someone and they do not hesitate and go straight in for the kiss, or the double kiss for that matter, that we all felt comfortable and inclined to do the same. I loved talking about the awkward “lean in to kiss someone, when they went in for the hug or even stuck out their hand for a solid shake and your entire body smacked their hand away because you were trying to say hello with your lips and not your hand.”

My friends and I would finish our fun filled to kiss or not kiss conversation with a good laugh, and as we all dispersed to go to our respective homes for the evening, we would all kiss each other on the cheek to say “Goodnight” and turn around still laughing, only knowing that tomorrow would be a new day for table talk about saying goodbye and ending with a kiss on the cheek.

My senior year of college, four of my friends and I decided that we wanted go to the X-Games in Aspen. We packed up my friend’s Passat, threw a few items of clothing in her trunk, along with as much junk food and diet colas that we could squeeze in as well. The drive from Denver to Aspen, was about 5-6 hours, however we raced there with excitement and made record time of 4 hours and 47 minutes. On our journey out to Aspen we were able to meet other X-Game goers by taping a piece of paper with our names on it and a phone number, with a note underneath saying, ‘Off to the X-Games…Call for a good time, or better yet meet us at the top of the Half Pipe and look for 5 pretty girls’.

The five of us- Jenna, Eb, Kate, Jordan, and I - were off on a wild adventure to watch snow boarders do flips in the air, and gaze at skiers fly off large platforms, and even try to sneak into the VIP tent where we would always claim to know that “one guy” who is wearing the black Volcom Jacket. We were five girls on a mission to have fun, watch the boys tear it up, and try to relax thinking about our accommodations for the weekend.

We had found an ad on Craigslist about 2 WM’s who were renting out an upstairs loft to anyone who wanted to come and enjoy the weekend in Aspen and watch the X-Game events. The five of us girls decided that if we could find a place that was relatively cheap, we would take the chance and stay with strangers. The 2 WM’s ad ended up being exactly what we were looking for:

2 WM’s = 2 White Male

The 2 White Males were in their late 50’s, both divorced, both had kids older then we were, and were ok with the idea of renting out their extra space in their gorgeous Aspen apartment to five college girls. To our dismay these 2 WM’s were the best part of our trip. They gave us a place to stay, took us to dinner, and then decided to give us their VIP passes to the events that were taking place the night after we arrived.

The first night with our new older male friends was a night filled with name games, what are your hobbies, and of course stories about their lives that us girls were more then inclined to listen to, even though we help no interest in their days when they would party like rockstars in Miami on South Beach. However, we put up with their stories and in return the 2 WM’s took us to dinner. We drove in their rental car because they had flown in from out of town. Four girls sat in the back, while one was lucky enough to sit on the lap of our new found WM. We were all thrilled that we were going to a nice dinner in Aspen, but we were a little put back when we saw that one of us was stuck in the front seat with a man just as old as our fathers.

We pulled up to the restaurant on a snowy evening in January, and we all stumbled out of the tightly seated rental car and waited on line to be seated. Us girls were dressed like we had just been skiing. We were wearing jeans, 5 layers on our upper body, our ski jackets, and of course the necessary furry headband that keeps our ears warm. We finally sat down at the restaurant, while people around us glared at us as we trickled into our chairs embarrassed that we weren’t dressed to par. The WM’s told us not to worry, so we all sat and started to talk about the only thing that we all really had in common: Martini’s.

The martini menu at this restaurant was so extensive the seven of us picked out the different types that we had tried, never had heard of, or what seemed to be good but probably wasn’t. The 2 WM’s raved about the Cosmopolitans that they drank in Miami for their friend reunions back in the day. The five of us ladies grilled the WM’s about what was in a Dirty Martini, a Manhattan, a Sour Apple Martini, and as our night rolled on our list of martinis grew and the names of the martinis became more and more interesting.

The WM’s asked us questions about our lives as well. Why don’t you have a boyfriend? Do you like Pasta? Do you like living in Denver? Why don’t you have a boyfriend again?

The martinis kept coming and so did the questions. At one point in the night the 2 WM’s thought it would be hysterical that they took a potty break together, to imitate the way of us women. They left the five of us gossip girls alone and we chattered about how uncomfortable we felt when one of the WM’s would ask us about boyfriends. The only thing we could do was laugh and play it off like everything was cool, when we all knew that our skin was crawling with nerves.

The seven of us had spent 2 1/2 hours together at the nice restaurant in Aspen, talking to each other about our lives. Any moment of silence, or awkwardness, or something along the lines of veering towards inappropriate my friend EB would make eye contact, start laughing and try to act like we had no idea what was going on. Our spurts of laughter sometimes turned into hysteria and the WM’s would play along and start hysterically laughing as well. I think that one of the WM’s had tears rolling down his face by the end of the night, because apparently the topics of conversation were just that funny.

The night came to an end with one final martini, a toast to life and love, and happy faces all around. The five of us girls couldn’t have been more thrilled to have shared the evening with our 2 WM’s.

The summer after I had graduated college I made an executive decision to put off the “real” world for a few months to site see, become cultured, and try to flirt with as many foreign men as possible. So I boarded the airplane and headed to my first stop on my European Adventures, Rome.

I got off the airplane in Rome, found my way to the hostel where my friends were awaiting my arrival, and of course, the first thing that the four of us girls could think about doing was eat. We opened up our travel guide, which we had seven of (we were all too prepared) and walked through piazza’s to find a cute, local Italian joint. We sat down at a typical cafe in Rome ordered and immediately started laughing after our server asked us

“Where are you from?”

In unison we all said The US. Our server nodded off, shaking his head, giggling a little bit, and then turning around mid laugh to make sure that we were more than satisfied with his performance. We all smiled and immediately turned to one another and started talking about which passer-byer we thought was cute. Or if we should opt for a glass of wine now or wait until later. Or if we should order some more mussels for the table. The four of us girls were ecstatic to be surrounded by the Italian culture, the music, the food, and of course the Italian men who didn’t understand a word of what we were saying except for: We Are American.

Americans in Europe are like gold to actual Americans. Obviously, our server was jolly the rest of the afternoon after we told him we were American, and he sang to us, brought us free wine (so he said in his horribly broken English), and gathered a restaurant crew together to put on a small performance for us because we asked for something special.

Our performance ended and we couldn’t stop laughing. When our laughter finally settled to just a giggle here and there, we were chattering up a storm about which one out of our friends did we think that our server had a crush on. Now, we were 22 year old girls, so we spared no detail. We went on and on about what kind of dancer he would be; we all agreed that he would never be as goofy of a dancer as a typical frat-boy from the States, but we did decide that he is Italian, so he must know some type of romantic jig. We talked about what kind of nose he had, and being Italian, it was anything but small. I raved about his hair, and how he needed to calm down on the amounts of product he put in it. One of my friends talked about his teeth, his clothing, his accent, and etc…

These things we were saying however, weren’t ALL bad. We all loved the fact that he was foreign, and that his skin was dark, and he was tall, I guess we considered him to be somewhat handsome. To our dismay, this Italian cutie, who seemed to share his smiles and kind heart with us understood everything we were saying at our gossipy luncheon. We all assumed he had no idea what we were talking about…we were fooled.

He brought us our check, and then said in perfect English

“I heard you girls talking, and…and…Ciao Bellas.”

His voice trailed off and we were all speechless. We sat at our table, jaws practically on the table, thinking how did he understand us? In my travels with these three other girls, we never once were caught talking about our server in any way other than completely positive thoughts. After being caught once, by the man who serenaded us with Italian song, we decided that even though, we Americans did not understand any language but our own, we never again assumeed that our European friends did not understand us in return.

I remember the day that I graduated so vividly that sometimes I feel like it was yesterday. Excitement, joy, tears, and love were being spilled all across the country when ‘Graduation Day’ came rolling around. My cousin and I graduated from the same college, the same year, and we both knew what was coming; Family Dinner. The theme to the Adam’s Family was playing over and over in my head. Neither one of us could even fathom the idea of bringing the entire family together for fun filled, embarrassing stories about our recent college years, that made the both of us cringe with fear. However, our parents were more than thrilled to get together for some loud, fun, family time.

Before I keep going, let me preface myself: My name is Danielle, but people, the majority of the time call me Dee. Well actually no one calls me Danielle, except for my friends who think they can get my attention by using my REAL name. I spent my four years of college in the great sunny state of Colorado. Then I fled the country and spent a year in Israel, after I did a trek through Europe and quick stopover in Thailand. During the past few years of my so called “adult life” I have encountered many interesting dinner conversations. Not only do I love engaging in wildly humorous and mildly inappropriate dinner conversations, but I highly enjoy the idea of sitting for hours, talking about nonsense, and then later in the evening laughing about your entertaining conversation that only your family/friends would talk about; obviously, because your friends/family are the most hysterical group of people that has ever stepped foot on this planet.

Now that I have introduced myself and my passion for intellectual, as well as comical dinner conversations we can continue on about my fantastic graduation dinner that my cousin and I endured. My cousin J and I stole glances with each other, as we gazed around the party room and saw our entire immediate family (except for my sister, because she was galavanting in Europe with her friends) staring at us with excitement, and that look that grown ups get when they have multiple important questions to ask. J and I rolled our eyes at our parents, trying to make them understand our pain of having graduated and really not wanting to talk about anything other then our funny moments during sophomore year when I used to steal my neighbors Peanut Butter. However, our parents thought it would be only appropriate and oh-so entertaining to ask the college graduates

“Honey. Won’t you tell your Aunts and Uncles about what you are planning to do with your life…”

The table of atleast twenty guests immediately stared at J and I and we were put on the spot to answer that infamous question that every college graduate frets and every elderly in the continental USA will ask

“WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE?”

Here is where the conversation really takes off, and the grandparents are trying to impress the other grandparents about their incredible grandchild who is going to Israel, or for J, already has a job. Mind you, we are all family here, but the competition is still stiff. The question not only gets asked, but it is asked many times over. I for one, hated that question. Why can’t I live my life and I will tell you what I am doing day by day? I guess that idea is completely out of the question, or as my grandmother would say: Dee don’t be silly.

A few martinis, that I was officially allowed to drink, and a few dozen bottles of wine later, the topic still persisted, but J and I were finally a little more carefree about the situation that we both were trying so hard not to think about. The night bore on, and it finally came to an end after about three and a half hours of talking about us; the one topic that I was completely unsure of, but somehow I made everyone at the table seem like I knew exactly where my life was going; I used the method of what I like to call: Humor. Any chance I was given I seemed to crack a joke about my future, or how I have no future, but I was just using that as a defense mechanism against the big bad family who wouldn’t stop prying.

I engaged my family in the conversation about MY LIFE and they bought every little detail that I spat out of my mouth, even though I really had to idea what I was doing, except fleeing America and going to play in Israel. So to make sure that no one asked detailed questions I would blurt out something about how lovely their outfit was, or how happy I was that they were at my grad dinner…but in my defense, what college graduate knows what they are doing with their life? I sure didn’t…and I still think sometimes, that I am not quite sure.

When I left my college graduation dinner with my cousin J and a few of our friends, who had wished they never came to dinner in the first place, I couldn’t help but say out loud and in the most relieved voice

“Thank goodness that is over!!!!”

Everyone laughed, and we continued on, trying not to recall the events of the evening that had come to an inevitable close.