Hedge: I just read a news story about some jackass parolees that poured cologne on their passed out friends’ crotch and set him on fire. He got third degree crotch burns. This is why I don’t drink and pass out with parolees.
Gina: I have a photo of my friend Dave passed out with his crotch on fire. We used carpet foam, though, so it just sat on top and burned off long enough to get a good pic…
Hedge: Hence the reason you aren’t a parolee. You know how to pull off a proper crotch burn.
Gina: Well, I didn’t go to college for nothing. I passed with flying colors the following classes:
Appropriate places to puke
Proper crotch burning 101: How to take hilarious photos of your friends and not kill anyone
Tequila: finding your limits
How to make a pipe/bong out of anything: fruit division
How to make a pipe/bong out of anything: school supplies division
How to make a pipe/bong out of anything: kitchenware division
How to make a pipe/bong out of anything: medical devices division
What to tell your mother when she asks where you were
Casual Sex: a primer
Hedge: I got a 4.0 in being the only girl among my friends that could beer bong 3 beers without as much as a slight gag. All while on my knees wearing a half shirt and mini skirt.
Hedge: I wish I could find the pics of that. Just to see myself in a half shirt and mini skirt. You know, I could probably still pull of the beer bong. I was already an expert on the “open throat” concept. That I learned in Fellatio 101.
Don’t forget about my contest. I’ll announce the winner some time on Friday and post the answers.
I had a dream about an old friend last night, and I can’t get it out of my mind. I’m not generally much on dreams and their interpretation, but I can’t figure out why this one is so vivid in my mind and why I jus can’t seem to shake the feeling that it means something. I know that reading about other people dreams is boooooorrrrring, so I’ll keep it short (the dream part anyway).
I dreamt that I was at a Dead show (I remember when I only had to say “a show” and everyone around knew what I was talking about – I’m old). Anyway, I was there alone and I wanted to find my friend, Dave (I started to use a pseudonym, but why bother). I knew he’d be there because – duh – it was “a show”. I decided that the best way to find him would just be to walk around in the parking lot’s carnival-like atmosphere calling his name. And lo and behold, it worked (this is not that far-fetched – it’s actually worked in the past). He was sitting at a picnic table with a group pf people that seemed awfully surprised that some strange person was yelling their friend’s name and he jumped up and hugged me. We ended up hanging out together and doing various bizarre things (like when you’re in a dream and one minute you’re at a concert and the next, you’re on a roller coaster and then suddenly, you’re climbing a porch). And then – just like that – he was gone.
I woke up then and felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I don’t know if it was just “seeing” him again or what. But I felt like I needed to drop everything and find him. I have searched for him many times in the past unsuccessfully. Once, I found an email for someone with his name and I sent them a couple emails over a period of time, but never received a reply. I tell myself that the email was outdated because I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t reply to me, but there’s always that chance. I guess I could probably find some phone listings to try I tried really hard, but I am not sure what I want out of it. Finding an email address is one thing. I could write and if it’s him, he could write back and we could start up a nice, no pressure friendship again. But finding a phone number is a little daunting. The idea of calling him up and talking after all these years. What if it’s not him? What if it is? What do I say? What if he’s married and his wife answers? What if he doesn’t want to hear from me?
It might sound weird, but the phone thing is threatening to me for some reason. Maybe its because I called him once at his apartment and his roommate gave me some very vague deal about him not being there anymore. So I called his parents and they brushed me off as well. I can’t remember exactly what was said, but the basic just of it was that he was in some trouble and that he needed to cut off ties with his past. I cried for days after that, wondering if he hated me, wondering if he was OK. A few years later, I ran into a mutual acquaintance who told me he heard that Dave had some serious drug problems and ended up in rehab. This could very well be true – he had a history and it would fit with his roommate’s and parents’ odd reactions.
A little background on Dave. I met him my freshman year of college. He was a philosophy major. I met him during a class – at my 1st college, we had a month long semester where you took one intensive, all day, non-traditional class. I took physics classes both times (I know – huge geek), but they were cool classes – in one, I learned to fly a plane! That’s cool physics. Anyway, Dave was in my class and he was always trying to talk to me about “deep” shit. And I didn’t care about deep shit. He used to give me all these deep philosophy/science/math theory books to read and then want to discuss them. It drove me crazy for a while, but eventually, he started to grow on me.
He was rumpled and messy and crazy and fun. He introduced me to a lot of thing (some good, some bad) that I wouldn’t have found on my own. He was a great guy. We spent all our time together and he ended up being one of the best friends I have ever had. We were always out hiking and talking and reading and learning (just not the stuff we were supposed to be learning). It sounds corny, but at a time when I was really searching for something, he helped me find out who I was. I truly loved him.
But I could see it in his eyes. He liked me. He was a good friend and I wanted to keep it that way, so I ignored it and he ignored it and we went on for a long time like that. My roomie and I even moved into his suite (in the boy’s dorm) for a while, because he was the only one in a 4-person and there was no shared bathroom and lots of fun. He knew my deepest secrets, my favorite songs and what I liked on my pizza.
One night, when he was walking me back to my dorm, he brought it up. He stated his case very logically about how it made sense for us to be a couple (it did) and how we had the perfect relationship (we did) and how we had everything except the intimacy (true). But he just couldn’t understand that for me, the physical attraction wasn’t there. I explained it the best I could, and to his credit he accepted it. We agreed to remain friends and we really did. But he asked for just one kiss and I agreed. I guess I thought it wouldn’t hurt and hell, you never know which sparks might fly. Well, none did. It was a chaste kiss and then it was over. We stayed friends and had a lot of fun together in the years to come. (Although I found out later from a guy that went to the very small school with us that someone saw us kiss and everyone thought we were and item and that there were several non-asshole guys who would have asked me out if not for that. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. It didn’t stop the fucking assholes from wining and dining and treating me like shit, though.)
Anyway, Dave and I stayed friend for a few years, calling and writing after we both left college and visiting each when we could (we lived about 4 hours apart – me in Pittsburgh and him in Gaithersburg). We sent each other care packages – he would send bootleg tapes and other “goodies” my way. I sent him care packages for his Grateful Dead touring trips, filled with munchies and visine and trippy toys, and one year on his birthday I sent him scarlet begonias and signed the card with only “you knew right away I was not like other girls.” Of course, he knew who they were from immediately. This long-distance, yet still rewarding friendship went on for a few years – right up until the time I finally couldn’t reach him anymore. I’m not sure what I want out of finding him now, but since last night, every few minutes I think about him. I think about the loss of a friend. And suddenly after 18 years, I am feeling that loss as if it were yesterday and it takes my breath away.
He was a part of the most bittersweet time of my life. A time when I found myself and then lost myself. When I laughed more than I ever had and cried harder than ever before. A time when I really lived out loud. Maybe it’s my impending 40th birthday and the feelings of mortality setting in. Maybe I want to feel a little of that freedom and joy again. All I know is in that dream when he hugged me, I felt so good and safe and like I had found my way home. At that – though imaginary – moment, I couldn’t think of anywhere I would rather be.
I don’t know if I will ever see or speak to him again, but wherever he is, I hope he is happy.
I was a freshman in college and away from home and out from under my mother’s control for the first time. After years of (what I now know was reasonable) rules and curfews and (maybe not so reasonable) suspicions and questions, the siren song of no curfew/no answering to anyone/no boss of me was irresistible. While I loved being a college student, going to class and learning new things, the freedom of being able to do what I wanted, when I wanted and with whom I wanted was far more interesting and fun for me.
I started out going to parties on the weekend, then during the week, then every day. I was drinking and getting high and having a grand old time. Pretty soon I was missing classes and practices and not really giving a shit. I was basically doing just enough to pass my courses and stay on the diving team and majorette squad – nothing more.
I had a friend – Lamb – who lived on my hall. She was a pretty innocent type – a preacher’s daughter who grew up sheltered and somewhat naïve. We were different in a lit of ways, but we got along well and had fun together. She would go to parties and have a few beers, but that was about the extent of it. She knew, as freshman year went long, that we were growing apart – mainly because of our diverging paths. She worried about me a lot, though I didn’t know it at the time.
Eventually, a sorority formal was coming up and I needed a date. Coincidentally, I had recently notice that my best friend Milo was calling me more often “just to see how I was doing”, so I figured he’d be the perfect date. I asked him, expecting to have to convince him a little, but to my surprise, he agreed to go right away. When the formal rolled around, we went and had a great time, sharing a room with Lamb and her date. We danced and drank and hot tubbed and caught up on the past months spent apart. But that night, Milo said something to me that I will never forget. He told me that Lamb had called him the month before and told him that she was worried about me. She wanted his advice and his help to get through to me – to help me see what I was doing to myself. He told me that he cared about me and didn’t want to see me throw it all away for a party. He told me he worried about my safety. He told me I could turn to him (or Lamb) anytime if I needed him.
It was a shock, to say the least. I mean, it wasn’t a full-blown intervention, but it still got to me. At first, I was furious. I felt betrayed by Lamb, felt that she was a goody-two-shoes for ratting me out to Milo – she was just naïve – she didn’t know that I could handle my alcohol – one drink seemed like a big deal to her – she was a Reefer-Madness groupie that was afraid of what she didn’t know, etc. I felt violated, since she had clearly gone through my stuff to find him. I felt that her perception of my lifestyle was the problem, and not my actual lifestyle. But it didn’t take long for me to come around and realize that these two people loved me and wanted to help me. Maybe their perception was a little off the typical college attitude of what’s acceptable, but their feelings and the reasons behind them were not.
Milo drove over a hundred miles to see me in person and talk to me. He risked my wrath (which can be great – and he was aware of – 18 years of friendship tells you a lot about a person and we certainly had our share of arguments) to help me. he wasn’t risking our friendship because, truly, nothing could come between us, but I’m not sure if he knew that. But he did it because he cared.
And Lamb. I realized that my friend Lamb risked a lot to get Milo’s last name and where he went to college. I realized that she made long distance phone calls to get his number and call him. She risked being hung up on or considered to be a nut-job by calling up a stranger and talking to him about his best friend. Btu she was willing to do all that, and risk out friendship because she cared abut me.
The reason I’m telling you about this is because we are currently bombarded with Britney stories and I almost can’t believe I’m saying it, but I feel so bad for this girl. I was the first one to gossip and gleefully devour all there was to read about her life – her skankiness, her outfits, her famous virginity (and papal commendations), and her I am a Woman now statements. I made fun of her suddenly-growing boobs and her stupid hats and snakes and hair and boyfriends.
I wondered over her strange behavior, her marriage to her professional baby daddy, and her wedding itself was free-for-all (Pimp jogging suits? WTF? And also – hahahahaha). But when she was pregnant again so soon, then started driving with her babies not strapped in, and going out in public looking like an alcoholic after a three-day bender, and freaking out, and dropping her kids, and looking like she couldn’t stand up on her own, and shaving her head, and losing her shit I started to feel differently. I started to feel bad for her. Not only is she clearly suffering and in need of help, there are two little boys without a mom right now, and that is a tragedy.
I read her entry last night, and my first thought (other than 1: I agree and 2: damn, she’s so much more eloquent than I) was, “Where are Her People?” Where are the parents that supposedly love her? Where is the sister that at least at one point looked up to her? Are there grandparents? Aunts? Uncles? Cousins? Doesn’t she have a Lamb and Milo? Anyone who gives a shit?
And that’s the saddest part of it. The fact that most of us would have the help and support we need (no – “Dr.” Phil does not count). The fact that we aren’t famous or rich or loved by millions and still, there would be 50 or 40 or 25 or even one person who do something. The fact that I know my “people” would shake me, or put me in front of a mirror and show me what I had become, or get me some real help, or help me with my kids, or escort me to court dates and doctor’s visits, they would do something. The fact that hers, it seems, will not.