Skidmore Unofficial Presents: What Your Yankee Mother Never Told You (A Go-To Guide for Skidmore Girls)
Four score and seven years ago your Mom and Dad (Mom and Mom, Dad and Dad, etc.) dropped you off, kissed you on the forehead, and drove away six speeds to the wind back to New Jersey (don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, they’re having an amazing time without you). (There’s also a seventy-eight percent chance they’re having sex on your childhood bed right now).
Meanwhile, you are either the coolest person on campus or you’re sitting on a rock outside of Kimball crying on the phone to your BFF Jill from UMass Amherst. You may even be thinking of throwing yourself off Jonsson/Johnson Tower (I’ve been there) (don’t do it).
Whether you’re disenchanted, riddled with insecurity, or experiencing complete euphoria, below is some advice/wisdom/stupidity. Take it or don’t, it’s not like I talk to people born after 1995 anyway.
If you like your roommates, congratulations. I’d rather live in a fucking Halfway House than share a 10′-7″ x 19′-10″ room with two eighteen-year-old women. My friend from Bard’s roommate took a shit on her bed freshman year and she’s never been the same.
I can promise you it’s super lame if you’re still hanging with your high school friends Hudson and Jemma from Packer Collegiate Institute or whatever two point five years into being here.
If you eat Taco Tuesday you will get diarrhea and die.
New York: where the weather is cold but the people are even colder. Being nice requires effort. If you’re debating, however, whether to say “hi” to that guy from your Gov 101 class, do so. No one ever said, “Oh, (insert your name here)? She always said ‘hi’ to me. What a fucking bitch.” I feel strongly about this.
I don’t know anything so here’s some advice from Mary Karr. Fast forward to 6:37.
Omg tfw you see that kid you just hooked up with lol
If you saw someone’s perineum, I’m positive you are capable of making eye contact and casually head nodding. Bonus points for waving and smiling. Don’t be weird.
You will, at one time or another, become depressed. Whether this feeling lasts for forty-two hours or two years, seek help before empty Stewart’s Apple Cider Donuts boxes litter your bed, and your Spotify queue is limited to Red House Painters’ “Katy Song” and Joni Mitchell’s “The Last Time I Saw Richard.”
Woody Allen allegedly said eighty percent of life is showing up. Same goes for passing your classes.
If you don’t know how to do your laundry you’re either a Pritzker or a goddamn idiot. Your grandmother most likely had to wear a fucking rag when she had her period while your mother was forced to separate her whites, colors, and delicates. It’s not rocket science.
Toni Morrison once said, “I go where the liquor takes me.” This has been my motto since freshman year and it has yet to fail me. If you are Martha Stewart and can put things into tiny Dixie cups without wanting to murder someone, Jell-O shots are also fun.
For those of us plebs without wheels, the 473 runs at odd hours and sometimes doesn’t even show up, though I will say the relationship I’ve had with Pat the bus driver is the most stable I’ve had in my time here at Skidmore. That being said, befriend someone with a car immediately (you don’t even really have to like that person).
Caroline Street is an amalgam of Albany guidos in True Religion jeans, drunken women wearing bandage skirts purchased from Crossgates, Saratoga locals, and vitamin-D deficient Skidmore students. If you don’t have a fake, get one now, but don’t complain when your ID gets confiscated by the DA’s bouncer (i.e. the guy with the leather jacket and beanie).
Go to the gym if only to witness Professor Steve Stern exercising in those white tube socks your dad gets from Target, or to see guys from the tennis/baseball/basketball (sports!) team making grunting noises while staring at themselves in the Weight Room mirror. I also hear #thighgap is a thing now.
You know those kids with gold-plated name necklaces, inscrutable piercings, and Adidas Superstars? The confident, seemingly cool kids with the boisterous social life? You’ll forget they even existed once senior year rolls around. The New York Times even proved it. Kinda.
No one likes a racist, a sexist, a Facist, or a Republican.
Drinking and Driving (DON’T DO IT)
Somehow I still hear people saying – even my own friends – that they drink and drive. Drinking and driving is not something to brag about. You are not a “good” drunk driver. Eventually, you will either kill yourself or another person. Please do everyone a favor and call some guy named Dave from Saratoga Taxi or have a friend walk you home.
Sucess pt. 2
Graduating summa cum fuck me or whatever it’s called is great but that doesn’t make you morally superior or a better human being.
Now that my boobs have started sagging all I really want to do is Netflix and chill with myself. However, when I was an
unbearably naive freshman, I looked forward to parties in hopes of being hit on by guys with man buns clad in Carhartt jackets. Start making friends with upperclassman now if you want to have a social life that doesn’t involve drinking Franzia or Pinnacle Vodka mixed with what-the-vending-machine-had in your fluorescently-lit dorm room later.
Go to an academic festival, a poetry reading, or really anything happening in Gannett. Some things I have learned: Jonathan Franzen is a total dick, Marky Ramone has his own line of pasta sauce, and Gloria Steinem loves a good turquoise belt. Attending things is cool now.
Unless it’s 12:15 AM on a Friday night, The Spa is reserved for juniors, seniors, and English department literati (Steven Millhauser likes the BLT). Sorry in advance.
The powers that be decided to make Skidmore a smoke-free campus last year (somewhere Fran Lebowitz is shaking her head), but rules are meant to be broken. Also smoking kills but it looks cool.
Homesick? I really don’t know what to tell you. Do yourself a favor and head over to the counseling center.
Speaking of the counseling center
THESE APPOINTMENTS ARE HIGHLY COVETED so don’t be that asshole who cancels five minutes beforehand or worse yet, fails to show up. It would also behoove you to put that cute little reminder card they give you where you would usually put your debit so you can subtly show people in line at Burgess (Starbucks???) that you have REAL PROBLEMS.
Buy a vibrator now so you can tell all your freshmen girlfriends you had one first. Also if he doesn’t lick pussy, he’s not worth it.*
I got 12759786673459 problems and they’re all a bitch. Get a calendar and figure out how to prioritize.
Doing drugs is bad. If you have to do them, however, I recommend something that won’t fuck up your dopamine levels. You haven’t known real pain until you call your mom sobbing from your friend’s pre-owned Honda Accord after consuming five rum and cokes, three lines, and one bar (not necessarily in that order).
We all wanted to go to Brown. You’ll get over it eventually.
If these are the best four years of your life, that’s pretty sad. In the meantime, though, try and enjoy yourself. I know I have
*One time a guy offered me a swig of Listerine postcoital so yeah, chivalry isn’t dead.
Disclaimer: As I write this, I realize this is only my experience (and satirical opinion). Skidmore is lucky to have all types of young women (realizing that “woman” is a controversial term in itself); straight, gay, cisgender, transgender, queer, etc.