(I feel as though I may have already titled a blog post "Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes." But I'm too lazy to go back and look. Eh.)
Everything is changing.
The past year has sort of been a whirlwind of change. A flurry of engagements, marriages, big moves, career changes, babies, and a host of other milestones have been happening all around me. In the coming months, Lee and Hot Curry will move to Utah*, some friends are hoping to start families, others are facing big career changes.
In some stroke of extraordinary good luck, it took me five days to find a new place to live. Well, five days, infinite emails, phone calls, Craigslist lurkings, two properties falling through, and multiple sketchy potential roommates. Last Saturday, however, I got the call from a girl with whom I'd been looking for houses. She'd found it, THE house, gorgeous, in our price range, lots of space, three bedrooms and a third roommate already lined up. Ready to go October 1. She was standing in this gorgeous house holding an application, ready to sign and put down a deposit if I was in.
The catch: the house isn't in Federal Hill.
I have lived in the same 20-block radius of Federal Hill since 2007. Four and a half years. I've moved twice since I first arrived here from Florida, shaking the sand and dead lizards out of boxes. I know every crack in the sidewalk, every short cut, the hours of every liquor store, and where I can always, always find a parking space when I'm hard up. My friends all live here, my trivia is here, my vet/dentist/pharmacy/gym are here.
Now, granted, New House is geographically situated less than a mile away. But changing neighborhoods in Baltimore is akin to changing boroughs in New York. Not only that, it forces you to vastly recalibrate everything from your morning cup of coffee to where you can buy eggs at 10pm if you need to. WHICH SOMETIMES I DO.
So, I decided that this house needed to be nothing short of spectacular to make me give up the comfort of my daily routine. I went over to view the space, and my decision became more difficult, because it was. Spectacular, that is. Partially compared to where I'm living now, where the house is crumbling down around us, and partially compared to some of the spaces I'd seen previously. Nothing like a hovel that's outside of your price range to make you want to give up and live in a box. But this house...it's beautiful. It's large, it's open, it's full of light, it's on a pretty little street in an eclectic neighborhood with some of the best restaurants in the world. And it's in my price range. Well within, I might add.
You get stuck in your bubble, in your routines and habits, in the patterns that make up daily life. Moving to a new house disrupts this, but you adapt. Moving to a new neighborhood completely changes things. But I'll adapt.
And change, I've found, is not a bad thing. A new perspective, new habits and patterns. With the comfort of knowing I'm still a ten minute cab ride or half hour walk from my old 'hood.
So, I filled out an application and left a deposit. I picked up the keys and signed a lease a week later. And now...my life is filled with boxes and packing tape again, with changing addresses and begging my friends and family to come and help me - again - a mere six months after I previously moved.
And this time, it really is a move. A big change. Time to go forward, to adapt again, to begin again a little bit less than a mile away but in a different mind set and different physical orientation.
And, yes, high levels of stress. Moving makes me want to chew my own skin off. No lie. But from start to finish, it's been less than three weeks since I came back from vacation, discovered I needed to move, found a place, and will have everything done next weekend (I hope). At some point, I'll congratulate myself on this whirlwind of proactivity but, for the mean time, it's back to packing and purging. (The one good thing about moving being the sudden proclivity to throw all of one's crap away - less to move.)
And, also, it's not like I'm moving to Utah.
(*I need to include this fact because both were quite reticent to allow me to move out of Federal Hill, at which point we would no longer be neighbors of sorts. I reminded them, politely, that wherever I move in October, they are moving to UTAH in November. They told me I was being selfish and rude for leaving Federal Hill before them. How utterly insensitive of me.)
Showing posts with label federal hill. Show all posts
Showing posts with label federal hill. Show all posts
Monday, October 3, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
One Week to Vegas
Since 2007, Book Club has been the axis around which my social world has spun.
No, really.
The idea was conceived when I met Catalano. She and I were bridesmaids in Mrs. Spaz's wedding, and met shortly after I'd moved to the city from Florida. I knew very few people outside of a couple of college friends. Catalano had moved back to Maryland from Los Angeles a few months prior and was still single at the time. Shortly after I met her, she began dating her now-fiance.
I'd had a small book club in Tampa that met every few weeks for wine and gelato at an Italian cafe near my house. Catalano was keen on the idea to start our own book club in Baltimore, and volunteered a couple of her college friends and roommates. We started out as a core group of about seven girls. Five of those girls are still active book club members, nearly four years later.
Book Club began as a Tuesday-night affair, every two weeks. But, as the wine and gossip began to flow more heavily, Tuesday nights spilled into Thursday nights, Friday nights, Saturday nights. A couple of girls dropped out and, seeking new members, we placed a cheeky ad on Craigslist. Jaunt, who had recently moved to Baltimore from Pennsylvania, found said ad. She agreed to meet us, and we came up with an exit strategy should she turn out to be creepy. After all, who the hell answers an ad for a boozy Book Club on Craigslist? We were certain Jaunt would turn out to be a strapping bachelor in his mid-5o's with a delightful comb-over and a pocketful of double-entendres and invitations to his "beach house."
"If s/he's creepy," we agreed, "Book Club ends in thirty minutes, we all ditch him/her, and join up at the bar down the street."
Instead, we got Jaunt. Who is now, happily, my new roommate.
We picked up other girls as well. Some stalked Book Club through my blog, some came on as referrals from other members, and some (like Joel) simply happened to see a bunch of girls being loud and obnoxious on a Tuesday night in a wine bar and arguing over modern feminism and decided he must be a part of the action. (Joel is still the brave, sole male in Book Club. Whenever we go out to dinner, it's Joel and eight girls. I think he's quite proud of this fact.)
As Book Club became less "club" and more "urban family unit," we tossed around the idea of going on vacation, unofficially as a group. We've done weekends in Ocean City, but a few years back someone dropped the idea of Vegas and it's sort of floated around in our miasma for awhile.
And then Catalano got engaged.
Two words: Bachelorette. Party.
Hence, Book Club Goes to Vegas. While not an officially sanctioned vacation, and sadly not everyone was able to go, it's still the culmination of years of friendship here in Baltimore. I've done just about everything with these girls; from running errands to meeting past and current boyfriend(s), or Friday night dance parties at the gay club to weekends at the beach. Moving to the city was a lonely, difficult, startling experience. Finding this group of friends changed everything for me and, I think, for most of them as well.
In preparation for Vegas, emails have been flying. And, as is only appropriate, a list of Rules is being drafted bit by bit. So far, the following have been established:
1. I am not to let Mrs. Spaz out of my sight, as per Mr. Spaz's orders. This is the blind leading the blind as Mrs. Spaz and I have been known to rile one another up into tailspins of terrible behavior.
2. Catalano and I are not to let Legs fall down or lose her purse. This will be a full time job.
3. No hookers. Dead or alive. (I argued mightily against this one. How fun would it be to pool our cash, hire a hooker, have her come to our room and tell us her life story and/or secrets of the Vegas underground while we drink champagne and compliment her on her Lucite heels? I was overruled. Lame.)
4. No tigers. Dead or alive.
5. If your fellow teammate is passed out, apply sun screen for her. She'll thank you later.
Other rules to be drafted, voted upon, and established upon arrival.
I can't wait.
No, really.
The idea was conceived when I met Catalano. She and I were bridesmaids in Mrs. Spaz's wedding, and met shortly after I'd moved to the city from Florida. I knew very few people outside of a couple of college friends. Catalano had moved back to Maryland from Los Angeles a few months prior and was still single at the time. Shortly after I met her, she began dating her now-fiance.
I'd had a small book club in Tampa that met every few weeks for wine and gelato at an Italian cafe near my house. Catalano was keen on the idea to start our own book club in Baltimore, and volunteered a couple of her college friends and roommates. We started out as a core group of about seven girls. Five of those girls are still active book club members, nearly four years later.
Book Club began as a Tuesday-night affair, every two weeks. But, as the wine and gossip began to flow more heavily, Tuesday nights spilled into Thursday nights, Friday nights, Saturday nights. A couple of girls dropped out and, seeking new members, we placed a cheeky ad on Craigslist. Jaunt, who had recently moved to Baltimore from Pennsylvania, found said ad. She agreed to meet us, and we came up with an exit strategy should she turn out to be creepy. After all, who the hell answers an ad for a boozy Book Club on Craigslist? We were certain Jaunt would turn out to be a strapping bachelor in his mid-5o's with a delightful comb-over and a pocketful of double-entendres and invitations to his "beach house."
"If s/he's creepy," we agreed, "Book Club ends in thirty minutes, we all ditch him/her, and join up at the bar down the street."
Instead, we got Jaunt. Who is now, happily, my new roommate.
We picked up other girls as well. Some stalked Book Club through my blog, some came on as referrals from other members, and some (like Joel) simply happened to see a bunch of girls being loud and obnoxious on a Tuesday night in a wine bar and arguing over modern feminism and decided he must be a part of the action. (Joel is still the brave, sole male in Book Club. Whenever we go out to dinner, it's Joel and eight girls. I think he's quite proud of this fact.)
As Book Club became less "club" and more "urban family unit," we tossed around the idea of going on vacation, unofficially as a group. We've done weekends in Ocean City, but a few years back someone dropped the idea of Vegas and it's sort of floated around in our miasma for awhile.
And then Catalano got engaged.
Two words: Bachelorette. Party.
Hence, Book Club Goes to Vegas. While not an officially sanctioned vacation, and sadly not everyone was able to go, it's still the culmination of years of friendship here in Baltimore. I've done just about everything with these girls; from running errands to meeting past and current boyfriend(s), or Friday night dance parties at the gay club to weekends at the beach. Moving to the city was a lonely, difficult, startling experience. Finding this group of friends changed everything for me and, I think, for most of them as well.
In preparation for Vegas, emails have been flying. And, as is only appropriate, a list of Rules is being drafted bit by bit. So far, the following have been established:
1. I am not to let Mrs. Spaz out of my sight, as per Mr. Spaz's orders. This is the blind leading the blind as Mrs. Spaz and I have been known to rile one another up into tailspins of terrible behavior.
2. Catalano and I are not to let Legs fall down or lose her purse. This will be a full time job.
3. No hookers. Dead or alive. (I argued mightily against this one. How fun would it be to pool our cash, hire a hooker, have her come to our room and tell us her life story and/or secrets of the Vegas underground while we drink champagne and compliment her on her Lucite heels? I was overruled. Lame.)
4. No tigers. Dead or alive.
5. If your fellow teammate is passed out, apply sun screen for her. She'll thank you later.
Other rules to be drafted, voted upon, and established upon arrival.
I can't wait.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Take Two Vodkas and Wake Me When It's Over
I love change. I embrace change. To not change is to remain stagnant. To not take risks, to avoid rash attempts, is to admit failure before you begin.
That having been said.
I HATE MOVING.
My earthly possessions are split between two locations right now (three, if you count the items my parents are so generously storing for me in their basement) and my life is constant upheaval. I feel as though I am living out of my (overly large and obnoxious, Mary-Poppins-type) handbag and my car. The cats are beside themselves. One moment is pure, unadulterated ecstasy-
-LOOK AT ALL OF THESE BOXES AND CRAP FOR US TO RUN AROUND IN AND BAT AT AND PLAY WITH AND CHEW ON!! IT'S A FREE-FOR-ALL!!-
-and the next moment is undiluted panic-
-WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE, WHY IS EVERYTHING DIFFERENT, OH MY GOD, YOU'RE NOT LEAVING US ARE YOU, DON'T LEAVE, THIS IS HORRIFYING, THE WORLD IS ENDING WE WILL NEVER BE FED AGAIN I AM GOING TO PUKE EVERYWHERE TO SHOW YOU HOW UPSET I AM.
I feel similarly.
On one hand, I can't wait to move into my new place. Bigger bedroom, my own bathroom, awesome roommates.
On the other hand, it means I actually have to move. Like...pick up boxes and whatnot.
So, I did the only thing I knew of to do- I emailed all of my friends and begged them to help me, and framed the whole thing as a party with beer and pizza. I cashed in every favor, took on every willing participant.
I did, however, actually experience chest pains when I looked at the weather forecast for Saturday and saw the potential for snow.
Dear God, do not let it snow.
NO SNOW.
I WILL LOSE IT.
AND PUKE EVERYWHERE TO SHOW HOW UPSET I AM.
Change is good.
That having been said.
I HATE MOVING.
My earthly possessions are split between two locations right now (three, if you count the items my parents are so generously storing for me in their basement) and my life is constant upheaval. I feel as though I am living out of my (overly large and obnoxious, Mary-Poppins-type) handbag and my car. The cats are beside themselves. One moment is pure, unadulterated ecstasy-
-LOOK AT ALL OF THESE BOXES AND CRAP FOR US TO RUN AROUND IN AND BAT AT AND PLAY WITH AND CHEW ON!! IT'S A FREE-FOR-ALL!!-
-and the next moment is undiluted panic-
-WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE, WHY IS EVERYTHING DIFFERENT, OH MY GOD, YOU'RE NOT LEAVING US ARE YOU, DON'T LEAVE, THIS IS HORRIFYING, THE WORLD IS ENDING WE WILL NEVER BE FED AGAIN I AM GOING TO PUKE EVERYWHERE TO SHOW YOU HOW UPSET I AM.
I feel similarly.
On one hand, I can't wait to move into my new place. Bigger bedroom, my own bathroom, awesome roommates.
On the other hand, it means I actually have to move. Like...pick up boxes and whatnot.
So, I did the only thing I knew of to do- I emailed all of my friends and begged them to help me, and framed the whole thing as a party with beer and pizza. I cashed in every favor, took on every willing participant.
I did, however, actually experience chest pains when I looked at the weather forecast for Saturday and saw the potential for snow.
Dear God, do not let it snow.
NO SNOW.
I WILL LOSE IT.
AND PUKE EVERYWHERE TO SHOW HOW UPSET I AM.
Change is good.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Moving
Moving again, and psyched for my new place (hello, full bathroom all to myself, giant kitchen, and luxurious rooftop deck!) but dealing with the overwhelming anxiety of actually MOVING is not enjoyable.
My proclivity towards pack-ratting must be curbed. I have committed myself- again- to the process of throwing out something that, if I hold it for10 seconds and can't logically explain its existence in my life, needs to go. In two hours yesterday, I filled up 4 trash bags. The "green" sensitivity I have is equally offended by this gross waste, but sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and spring clean your life.
Upheaval is necessary sometimes- shake everything up, throw things away, re-organize, resettle. In the last ten years, I have moved 12 times. You'd think I'd have it down to a science at this point. You'd also think I would hesitate before accumulating again but....no. I have accepted this part of myself. I do worry that I will have to move every couple of years throughout my life to prevent myself from becoming one of those hoarders on television, drowning in piles of crap.
Life in boxes for the next couple of weeks. Moving on, moving up. Exciting, stressful, overwhelming, but overall necessary and good.
My proclivity towards pack-ratting must be curbed. I have committed myself- again- to the process of throwing out something that, if I hold it for10 seconds and can't logically explain its existence in my life, needs to go. In two hours yesterday, I filled up 4 trash bags. The "green" sensitivity I have is equally offended by this gross waste, but sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and spring clean your life.
Upheaval is necessary sometimes- shake everything up, throw things away, re-organize, resettle. In the last ten years, I have moved 12 times. You'd think I'd have it down to a science at this point. You'd also think I would hesitate before accumulating again but....no. I have accepted this part of myself. I do worry that I will have to move every couple of years throughout my life to prevent myself from becoming one of those hoarders on television, drowning in piles of crap.
Life in boxes for the next couple of weeks. Moving on, moving up. Exciting, stressful, overwhelming, but overall necessary and good.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Election Night Coverage Commentary
Politics. Only the important stuff:
"O'Malley's daughter is hot."
"His wife looks concerned. No- now she's happy. No, wait, concerned?"
"Where is this taking place in Federal Hill? I think I would notice a large crowd in the neighborhood. They have lighting rigged up. Where is this? The park? I didn't see anybody over there."
"She's got to be, what- 19? At least. She's really hot."
"Look at Elijah Cummings...what a happy man. He is totally wearing a shiny suit. He brought that out special."
"Or maybe I just think she's hot because her dad is powerful."
"Seriously- there are a LOT of people there. Where IS this?"
"That guy in the back comes into Metro. He's intense. He even looks intense."
"HOW SHORT IS BARBARA MIKULSKI?!"
"Maybe she looks that short because she's standing next to O'Malley? How tall is he, like 6 feet?"
"No way, O'Malley is like 5'10". Mikulski is like 4'8". She is a tiny, tiny woman."
"I often get attracted to girls who have power. Maybe she's not really that hot."
"Is this at the 8x10? Or AVAM? WHERE IS THIS TAKING PLACE? The news crew says 'Federal Hill,' but I'm IN Federal Hill and I do not see this giant crowd!"
"Stephanie Rawlings-Blake looks tired."
"Really? I think SRB is looking good."
"She's gorgeous. Too much make-up, though."
"Wake up, SRB! O'Malley is going to win!"
"Ehrlich is going down."
"WHERE IS THIS TAKING PLACE?"
"I mean, she looks pretty hot right now. If I didn't know her dad was O'Malley I'd probably still think that she's hot. I think."
"SRB might be coming down with the flu."
"HOW SHORT IS BARBARA MIKULSKI??"
"Wouldn't it be funny if this was taking place at Ropewalk? And ironic?"
"I love Elijah Cummings. He just looks so joyful. In his shiny suit."
"Do you think O'Malley's daughter is hot?"
"She's NINETEEN."
"So?"
"You're like....way older."
"So?"
"Is this at Ropewalk? No way they could fit that many people in there."
"I think it's a the Museum of Industry."
"That's not in Federal Hill. It's like...downtown."
"It is not, it's on Key Highway."
"SRB is so tired of standing there."
"Where is that phantom arm coming from?"
"I think O'Malley won."
"Oh, good."
"Awesome."
"SRB looks happier."
"Elijah Cummings looks shiny. And happy."
"O'Malley's daughter looks hot."
"Barbara Mikulski looks short."
"WHERE IS THIS BEING FILMED?"
Fin.
"O'Malley's daughter is hot."
"His wife looks concerned. No- now she's happy. No, wait, concerned?"
"Where is this taking place in Federal Hill? I think I would notice a large crowd in the neighborhood. They have lighting rigged up. Where is this? The park? I didn't see anybody over there."
"She's got to be, what- 19? At least. She's really hot."
"Look at Elijah Cummings...what a happy man. He is totally wearing a shiny suit. He brought that out special."
"Or maybe I just think she's hot because her dad is powerful."
"Seriously- there are a LOT of people there. Where IS this?"
"That guy in the back comes into Metro. He's intense. He even looks intense."
"HOW SHORT IS BARBARA MIKULSKI?!"
"Maybe she looks that short because she's standing next to O'Malley? How tall is he, like 6 feet?"
"No way, O'Malley is like 5'10". Mikulski is like 4'8". She is a tiny, tiny woman."
"I often get attracted to girls who have power. Maybe she's not really that hot."
"Is this at the 8x10? Or AVAM? WHERE IS THIS TAKING PLACE? The news crew says 'Federal Hill,' but I'm IN Federal Hill and I do not see this giant crowd!"
"Stephanie Rawlings-Blake looks tired."
"Really? I think SRB is looking good."
"She's gorgeous. Too much make-up, though."
"Wake up, SRB! O'Malley is going to win!"
"Ehrlich is going down."
"WHERE IS THIS TAKING PLACE?"
"I mean, she looks pretty hot right now. If I didn't know her dad was O'Malley I'd probably still think that she's hot. I think."
"SRB might be coming down with the flu."
"HOW SHORT IS BARBARA MIKULSKI??"
"Wouldn't it be funny if this was taking place at Ropewalk? And ironic?"
"I love Elijah Cummings. He just looks so joyful. In his shiny suit."
"Do you think O'Malley's daughter is hot?"
"She's NINETEEN."
"So?"
"You're like....way older."
"So?"
"Is this at Ropewalk? No way they could fit that many people in there."
"I think it's a the Museum of Industry."
"That's not in Federal Hill. It's like...downtown."
"It is not, it's on Key Highway."
"SRB is so tired of standing there."
"Where is that phantom arm coming from?"
"I think O'Malley won."
"Oh, good."
"Awesome."
"SRB looks happier."
"Elijah Cummings looks shiny. And happy."
"O'Malley's daughter looks hot."
"Barbara Mikulski looks short."
"WHERE IS THIS BEING FILMED?"
Fin.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Urban Family
Several years ago, when I was exiting a four-year relationship, I experienced that swift and utterly inevitable consequence of ending a long-term relationship littered with friends who have only known you to be one-half of a couple: the excommunication from certain group activities. Very quickly, my list of people I would consider friends whittled itself down. This is a natural life process- there are certain people who are in your life circumstantially. It doesn't belittle the weight of the friendship at the time, but it does make you consider what kinds of people are gonna be there for the long haul.
I think, because of this circumstance and also because I lost touch with so many people when I high-tailed it to Florida for three years after college graduation, that I had this ingrained fear that most adult friendships are transient. Dependent on circumstance and temporal. And I think, because of this, I perhaps haven't valued my friendships quite as much as I should have. This has been brought to my attention a lot recently. Several of my friends have gone to bat for me in circumstances that they surely didn't have to get involved in, much less offer the support and care that they did. I don't know why I got it in my head that you had already made all the lifelong friends you were going to make early on. This is categorically untrue.Because, the fact is, my friends make up the bulk of my life here in Baltimore. Where I never wanted to be in the first place. They have become a family of sorts, a network of support and love. And, even more surprising to me, they don't always wait for me to reach out to them. Their presence is consistent, constant, and welcome. Persistent even, at times, as well it should be. When I am truly upset, I have a very nasty habit of hermiting myself away which leads to this cycle of feeling sorry for myself because I am alone. This is bass-akwards.
My mom told me that I never have to be alone if I don't want to be, and she's absolutely right. At any given moment, I am fortunate enough to have friends I can call who will show up, listen, laugh, answer the phone or a text, or otherwise be present. And I'd do the same for them.
I think this is part of what I feared so much about being single in my late twenties- I had this horrific and deep phobia that all of my friends would move, get married, or otherwise extricate themselves from my life and, little by little, my friendships would be pared down and I would find myself utterly alone. This has proved itself to be completely untrue. In fact, if anything, my circles of friends continue to grow (in strength and in breadth) the more I invest in my life here in Baltimore.
A lot of it goes back to the Butternut Squash Soup Incident of 2009. I was in a definitive low. Things were Not Going Well across the board. I was Not Happy. And the only thing I could think of to remedy a thousand broken situations was to move. I wanted out of Baltimore, out of the messes I had found myself in, away from a history of indecisiveness and apprehension. I started looking for jobs and apartments in New York, Vancouver, San Francisco, London, Berlin. I looked into work visas to catapult me abroad. I wanted Out.
And I realized that if I moved, I would be starting over. Again. With no neighbors to make me soup. I would be, for all intents and purposes, truly alone. Possibly in a foreign country. Sure, I'd make new friends and have new adventures. But how long would it be before someone gave me soup? It took me two years in Baltimore before someone did that. Did I want to leave all of the networks of community I had started here in Baltimore to wipe the slate clean and work, again, on building a life from the ground up somewhere else?
The logic seemed- and was- skewed. I was trying to escape Baltimore because I was seeking change and looking for things that I thought I couldn't find. Mainly- community, belonging, purpose. Right. Under. My. Nose.
A year later, I've...shall we say....re-evaluated several things in my life. And realized that I have no desire to move again, at least not in the near future. I've built a life here, a community, a network of caring, hilarious individuals who not only make me soup, but cupcakes, pieces of art, mixed CDs, artfully mixed martinis, and a plethora of other richness that makes everyday feel special in some small way. I have friends who teach me yoga, who help me run races, get me job interviews, sit next to me in chuch, and tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself when I occasionally start down the path of pity-party. I have friends who tell me when I'm out of line, when I'm beating dead horses, when I'm so far off-track I'm not even in the park anymore.
I finally have the life I always wanted, only it doesn't look a damn thing like this THING I had in mind so many years before. I'm never alone, not really, unless I choose to be. There's soup in my freezer, companionship a short walk in pretty much any direction. I have neighbors from whom I can borrow eggs. Or, on one occasion, lime juice. I have the kind of friends who tell me, point blank, "This is what your friendship means to me," and it's my job, then, to reciprocate and contribute and give and give as much love as I am getting in return. Because that's the clincher with adult friendships- when circumstance no longer binds you together, it takes effort and energy to keep the wheels turning. If it's too much effort, too much energy, the thing will fizzle itself out. But, for the right people (the ones who are life-long,) it's never too much and it doesn't even feel like effort half the time. It's just what you do. You show up. You answer the phone. You make soup and share it.
(This also isn't to say that I don't have life-long friends that "go wayyyyyyyyyyy back." Snap; frenemies from ages 13-18, long-distance admirers of one another's work from ages 18-23, and then bffffffffs from then on; is getting married this spring and I am a bridesmaid in her wedding. Our friendship began, in a very twisted sort of way, when she kissed a boy who was the love of my life for three months in 1995. I hated her. I coveted her white blonde hair. I kind of thought she was totally cool. We became friends when we had to play tennis together in high school. She is totally as cool as I suspected. Mr. Spaz and I go 'way back as well: my high school exboyfriend who became one of my closest friends and then married my college best friend. Double insurance that both of them will forever be a part of my life. There are others, too. Several friends from college who, despite our geographical distances, stay close in my life. A couple of true lifelong friends from grad school. Again with geographical distances. But, again, it doesn't matter.)
And, of course, I'm thankful for all of the debauchery that goes on. My friends-all of them- are, truly, partners-in-crime. Our history reflects a lot of late-nights and distilleries consumed. Especially, for some reason, the last six months or so. Good God, this was an epic summer. Which reminds me: it's Halloween weekend and Catalano's fiance is out of town. More history to be made. (And, subsequently, photos to be hidden away, never to be posted on Facebook or blogs or any sort of public sphere.)
Monday, January 11, 2010
From Jaunt- "Who Does That?"
The following is a piece written by Jaunt based on an experience we had a few weeks ago. I like to think that I wasn't audibly laughing when I read this just because I happened to be there. Hopefully you, too, can appreciate the sheer hilarity and start your week off with a good laugh.
Note: I would like to point out that Jaunt's careful attention to detail is rendered beautifully in this script which, I shit you not, is almost verbatim what we witnessed that night. I almost think she must have been taking notes. Also, neither Jaunt nor I wishes to offend anyone with the following dialogue: let it be known that the opinions expressed by "Clint" and "Dory" do not in any way reflect upon the opinions of this blog, or Jaunt or me. We just report what we hear.
Also- YN is Jaunt's cousin/Fun Friend with whom I have enjoyed much merrymaking and dessert-eating.
Thanks, Jaunt, for letting me scavenge this!
"WHO DOES THAT?"
Scene: Metropolitan, a coffee shop/bar
Time: 8:27pm
Intention: To consume coffee and dessert
Result: Introduction to "Super Dumb" brothers
On March 26th, 2010, YN and I will be reenacting the events that transpired following Alma's glorious victory over LSU. This story has the potential to seem unbelievable, but this chain of events requires no exaggeration and outshines my creative abilities.
As YN and I were sipping our delicious coffee, two "gentlemen" entered the bar without attracting our attention. We had no idea that they were about to change our lives and patterns of speech forever. Although the following dialogue may seem unbelievable, it is the best attempt at recreation that we can manage. You must imagine if you can the thickest New York accents flowing from the mouths of one extremely attractive young man and one moderately adorable younger brother. Extremely hot big brother (Clint) catches my eye first, and I attempt to make eye contact. He delicately places two steaming mugs of frothy beverage on a table and sits with his back to the wall facing the bar. Moments later he is joined by his brother (Dory).
D: "What is this drink?"
C: "Irish coffee."
D: "Good one dude. Nice going. What are you, gay?"
C: "Just drink your fucking coffee, you moron."
D: "Shut the fuck up."
C: "I am so mad at you right now."
Throughout this interchange, YN and I are laughing out loud. Uproariously. Laughing. We are not understanding the full extent of the animosity between these two unruly gentlemen. Our mocking laughter attracts Dory's attention.
D: "Don't laugh at us. We are having a really bad night. My fucking brother.... So where are you girls from?"
Dory cannot focus on either his predicament or his desire to get in our pants. Or at least into our beds. The reason he was so driven to become our bed partner will be revealed in a few minutes.
YN and I explain that we are from CenPA. It turns out the boys lived in State College for a brief time during hottie's high school years. This time away from New York did nothing to diminish their accents or penchant for ridiculous behavior.
With the overt enthusiasm of an untrained puppy, Dory appeared to be hanging onto our every word. We later learn that these intentions will not translate into understanding.
D: "Yeah. State College and Bellefonte and Centre Hall. I mean Centre is spelled wrong. What is with that? Re instead of er. What is this drink?"
Repeat dialogue lines 1-6. Repeat uproarious laughter.
D: "You girls seem really nice. Where are you from."
As we repeat stories about our shared childhood homes, it dawns on us that this is no ordinary conversation. It seems that Dory cannot retain information for longer than 30 seconds. He also seems unoffended by our blatant laughter. It should be clear that we are laughing AT him, not WITH him.
C: "Yo man, shut the fuck up. What are we going to do?"
D: "Let's consider our options."
C: "We don't have any fucking options. We are up shit creek. There is no chance that I am going to sleep in a warm bed tonight."
D: "Well you and your stupid British girlfriend shouldn't have locked me out of my house."
C: "Who does that? Who loses their keys?"
Our laughter refocuses Dory's attention on us.
D: "So where are you from?"
Repeat conversation held previously - TWICE. Insert more laughter this time. Halfway through his re-realization that we too think Bellefonte is spelled strangely, Clint interrupts Dory's reminiscences.
C: "You need to focus on our situation."
D: "Yeah, what are our options?"
C: "You could go play in traffic."
D: "Yeah, well you could order more Irish coffee. Get me a beer."
C: "Who do you think you are talking to?"
D: "What are we going to do? We could stay with Jamel."
C: "I don't give a fuck about anything."
As Dory attempts to mockingly sip his beverage, he spills the steaming liquid down the front of his North Face fleece. This provokes a series of cursing.
Throughout this interchange, I am desperately trying to get Glitterati over to our table to witness the hilarity. This task is accomplished when she looks up to see Dory standing in front of our table stripping his jacket off. The coffee of course has permeated the jacket and left blotches of moisture on his shirt. It also appears that he has wet himself. A fact he mentions at least 25 times.
D: "It looks like I pissed myself. What is this cup? How does it work? This is the kind of cup you use to dye Easter eggs. How the fuck do you drink out of this? I'm an engineer, I should know."
He is holding the pieces of his broken cup up for our inspection. We are laughing. His brother is not. So far the angry, angry Clint has not smiled once. He is shooting death stares at his guileless brother's back. Dory pulls his chair over to our table and starts explaining the events that have transpired as he attempted to welcome 2010.
D: "I mean I can't even get into my own apartment. I am locked out. I literally do not have a key."
Dory goes on to explain how his brother was visiting from South Carolina and how somehow his brother had managed to lose both keys to the apartment. There were many contradictory statements about when these events occurred and the possibility of three extra keys laying on a dresser in the now locked house. Vital to the understanding of this story is a bedroom window that was meant to serve as the entry point throughout the duration of the lockout. It is unclear how the boys got into the house to open the window, but what Dory made perfectly clear is that Clint shut and locked the window after a directive that forbid this action. As Dory is regaling us with the improbable tale, Clint staggers off in the direction of the bathroom. He knew the location because "Celine Dion" had previously asked the waitress. As he passes our table, he issues another directive for Dory to "play in traffic".
At this point, YN and I control our laughter enough to offer some practical suggestions about locksmiths.
D: "I ain't paying for no locksmith. I don't even care if he misses his flight. Do you just have the number of a locksmith? Do you just carry that around? Who does that?"
YN: "Well, there is probably a phone book."
D: "No, I am not getting a locksmith."
C: "You super dumb asshole. My clothes are in that house. There is no chance that I am going to sleep in a real bed tonight."
D: "My roommate is going to come home at eight tomorrow night. He has a key. The only problem is that my brother's flight is leaving at three. I guess I can just mail him his suitcase."
C: "How the fuck am I supposed to fly without my suitcase."
YN and I inquire about his access to his credit card and ID to assure him that he could catch his flight without anything else. He derides these suggestions as stupid. We are in fact "super dumb" because we cannot understand his dilemma. At this point, Dory has pulled his chair up to our table, and Clint is channeling some of his energy into standing. He alternates between standing in our personal space and in the aisle where people need to walk. At this point, both brothers are drinking beer. Dory forgets about the house momentarily and resumes hitting on us/telling us his life story. He is explaining a typical Christmas and his family's new found love of board games.
D: "You know like that one game. Apples to Apples. Yeah, that is pretty fun. But the one I really like starts with a U."
Dory is trying desperately to remember the name of this mysterious game. YN suggests that he explain the rules to us to help him remember. All the sudden, a light bulb goes off in his head.
D: "Balderdash. That's the best one. My whole family loves that game. Even my brother, but he is too much of a tough guy to admit it.
Clint stumbles close enough to our table to say.
C: "Apples to Apples."
YN and I are laughing.
D: "You girls are alright. You are not fully fraudulent."
As we are laughing at this comment and trying to decipher whether or not he previously thought we are spies, Clint becomes enraged and starts verbally harassing other customers. I try to lecture him about how this is my favorite bar and how it would be lovely if he wouldn't break all the furniture or alienate all the city residents.
C: "I just don't give a fuck about anything. I am a fucking dick."
D: "Yo man, calm down. These girls are really nice. Listen to them."
Just then an elderly couple walks past our table. Clint addresses the lady.
C: "You want to take a mustache ride."
She and her husband hurry past, and YN and I pray that they do not know about urbandictionary.com. We chastise Clint for this comment.
C: "Fine, if you guys don't like me, I will just be friends with these fat retards."
He loudly directs this comment toward a group of four skinny to average sized men sitting beside us. His beer is waving dangerously over their heads, and it is clear that they do not consider friendship an option. During this time, Dory is repeating again the story of how the house became locked. Most of the details have changed, but his incredulity is constant.
D: "How does that happen? How does my brother lose the keys?"
I stupidly interject that the real problem is that he closed the window. This triggers another angry rage from Clint.
C: "You are a super dumb fucker. Who uses a window to get into their house?"
D: "People who lost their keys because of some British chick."
C: "Stinky Beaver"
D: "Doushe bag, OMG its 8:57 I thought it was like 3am, what are we going to do?"
C: "Well I know what we aren't going to do, go to your apartment. Who the fuck gets locked out of their own apartment?"
D: (checks phone again) "Dude its 9:00 I thought it was at least midnight we can't get into my apartment until at least 8 tomorrow night"
C: "I'm going to fucking miss my flight, why don't you go play in traffic"
After a loving brotherly name calling exchange. Dory proceeds to turn his attention back to us and inquire "Where are you guys from?" In midst of laughing at Dory's unfortunate lack of memory, we again attempt to politely suggest ways that may improve the brothers' lot in life. After asking if Dory had heard back from his friend about whether they could stay at his apartment, Dory returns our suggestion made approximately one hour earlier
D: "You guys wouldn't happen to have the number for a locksmith?"
Surprisingly, Dory has a moment of clarity and begins dialing the number that YN had found for him. While making the call Dory continues to explain that he has no faith that this will actually correct his problem of being locked out of his apartment. His conversation with the locksmith is punctuated by asides to us.
D: "He actually answered"
Dory then proceeds to inquire if the locksmith did in fact have the ability to help him with his dilemma. Worried that Dory's short term memory problems would confuse the locksmith on the other side of the phone, I offerred to speak for Dory, but was refused. Miraculously Dory is able to convey the necessary information to the locksmith. After hanging up the phone Dory appears invigorated with new hope that he may enter his apartment in 2010. After a few moments, his phone rings again and Dory appears to be instructing the person on the other line that he will in fact be at his apartment in a few minutes. During this exhange, Dory covers the phone to whisper to us, "He's Mexican."
Dory then proceeds to get ready to rush to his apartment. In his haste he puts his jacket on inside out and is confused when he's unable to work the zipper. I kindly advise him that it might work if he put his jacket on the other way.
D: "I just realized that when you were telling me."
We try again to explain that his brother has left to go meet the locksmith. This does nothing to appease his anger over all the ways his little brother has failed him. We try to distract him with new topics of conversation. Glitterati asks what he does in Charleston.
C: "I work in a resteraunt. It's simple."
We try in vain to learn more about his life, but he refuses to elaborate on his declarations that "it's simple." Clint fumbles with his phone for a few minutes. It is unclear if there is anyone on the line, and when we ask if it is Dory, he tells us that he has "not heard from that kid." We resume talking, but a couple of minutes later Clint gets a little emotional. He clutches his chest around the heart region and starts professing his love for his brother.
C: "It is like my brother is doing something. He is really trying to get the house unlocked. I thought he was going to sit here and just wait for magic, but he is really out there trying to get into his house. He isn't even breaking the window or nothing."
We have no idea what prompted the sudden realization that Dory was in fact meeting with a locksmith. He had rejected this notion the hundreds of times that we brought it up. Not willing to risk a return to his feelings of animosity, we encouraged him to pay his tab and go meet his brother at the house. There was only one explosion of anger.
Glitterati: "You have a great smile."
C: "What? Are you being sarcastic. Are you being condescending? You are a super bitch. I love bitches."
Glitterati: "You are not good at accepting compliments."
C: "Shut up."
Eventually the tab is paid and Clint departs. We sit there laughing for another 20 minutes before we leave as changed women. We swear that we are going to stop using the word asshole so liberally because it really only applies to boys who ask 80 year old women if they want a mustache ride. We promise ourselves that we will make extra copies of our house keys to distribute to friends. We reaffirm our love for our less caustic siblings. We know that in the future we will compliment people by assuring them that they are not "fully fraudulent". We make plans to use this plot line to pick up boys on our birthday. We acknowledge that 2010 has already provided us with as much laughter as all the months of 2009 combined.
Thank god those boys were pretty - their survival is dependent upon their dimples.
Note: I would like to point out that Jaunt's careful attention to detail is rendered beautifully in this script which, I shit you not, is almost verbatim what we witnessed that night. I almost think she must have been taking notes. Also, neither Jaunt nor I wishes to offend anyone with the following dialogue: let it be known that the opinions expressed by "Clint" and "Dory" do not in any way reflect upon the opinions of this blog, or Jaunt or me. We just report what we hear.
Also- YN is Jaunt's cousin/Fun Friend with whom I have enjoyed much merrymaking and dessert-eating.
Thanks, Jaunt, for letting me scavenge this!
"WHO DOES THAT?"
Scene: Metropolitan, a coffee shop/bar
Time: 8:27pm
Intention: To consume coffee and dessert
Result: Introduction to "Super Dumb" brothers
On March 26th, 2010, YN and I will be reenacting the events that transpired following Alma's glorious victory over LSU. This story has the potential to seem unbelievable, but this chain of events requires no exaggeration and outshines my creative abilities.
As YN and I were sipping our delicious coffee, two "gentlemen" entered the bar without attracting our attention. We had no idea that they were about to change our lives and patterns of speech forever. Although the following dialogue may seem unbelievable, it is the best attempt at recreation that we can manage. You must imagine if you can the thickest New York accents flowing from the mouths of one extremely attractive young man and one moderately adorable younger brother. Extremely hot big brother (Clint) catches my eye first, and I attempt to make eye contact. He delicately places two steaming mugs of frothy beverage on a table and sits with his back to the wall facing the bar. Moments later he is joined by his brother (Dory).
D: "What is this drink?"
C: "Irish coffee."
D: "Good one dude. Nice going. What are you, gay?"
C: "Just drink your fucking coffee, you moron."
D: "Shut the fuck up."
C: "I am so mad at you right now."
Throughout this interchange, YN and I are laughing out loud. Uproariously. Laughing. We are not understanding the full extent of the animosity between these two unruly gentlemen. Our mocking laughter attracts Dory's attention.
D: "Don't laugh at us. We are having a really bad night. My fucking brother.... So where are you girls from?"
Dory cannot focus on either his predicament or his desire to get in our pants. Or at least into our beds. The reason he was so driven to become our bed partner will be revealed in a few minutes.
YN and I explain that we are from CenPA. It turns out the boys lived in State College for a brief time during hottie's high school years. This time away from New York did nothing to diminish their accents or penchant for ridiculous behavior.
With the overt enthusiasm of an untrained puppy, Dory appeared to be hanging onto our every word. We later learn that these intentions will not translate into understanding.
D: "Yeah. State College and Bellefonte and Centre Hall. I mean Centre is spelled wrong. What is with that? Re instead of er. What is this drink?"
Repeat dialogue lines 1-6. Repeat uproarious laughter.
D: "You girls seem really nice. Where are you from."
As we repeat stories about our shared childhood homes, it dawns on us that this is no ordinary conversation. It seems that Dory cannot retain information for longer than 30 seconds. He also seems unoffended by our blatant laughter. It should be clear that we are laughing AT him, not WITH him.
C: "Yo man, shut the fuck up. What are we going to do?"
D: "Let's consider our options."
C: "We don't have any fucking options. We are up shit creek. There is no chance that I am going to sleep in a warm bed tonight."
D: "Well you and your stupid British girlfriend shouldn't have locked me out of my house."
C: "Who does that? Who loses their keys?"
Our laughter refocuses Dory's attention on us.
D: "So where are you from?"
Repeat conversation held previously - TWICE. Insert more laughter this time. Halfway through his re-realization that we too think Bellefonte is spelled strangely, Clint interrupts Dory's reminiscences.
C: "You need to focus on our situation."
D: "Yeah, what are our options?"
C: "You could go play in traffic."
D: "Yeah, well you could order more Irish coffee. Get me a beer."
C: "Who do you think you are talking to?"
D: "What are we going to do? We could stay with Jamel."
C: "I don't give a fuck about anything."
As Dory attempts to mockingly sip his beverage, he spills the steaming liquid down the front of his North Face fleece. This provokes a series of cursing.
Throughout this interchange, I am desperately trying to get Glitterati over to our table to witness the hilarity. This task is accomplished when she looks up to see Dory standing in front of our table stripping his jacket off. The coffee of course has permeated the jacket and left blotches of moisture on his shirt. It also appears that he has wet himself. A fact he mentions at least 25 times.
D: "It looks like I pissed myself. What is this cup? How does it work? This is the kind of cup you use to dye Easter eggs. How the fuck do you drink out of this? I'm an engineer, I should know."
He is holding the pieces of his broken cup up for our inspection. We are laughing. His brother is not. So far the angry, angry Clint has not smiled once. He is shooting death stares at his guileless brother's back. Dory pulls his chair over to our table and starts explaining the events that have transpired as he attempted to welcome 2010.
D: "I mean I can't even get into my own apartment. I am locked out. I literally do not have a key."
Dory goes on to explain how his brother was visiting from South Carolina and how somehow his brother had managed to lose both keys to the apartment. There were many contradictory statements about when these events occurred and the possibility of three extra keys laying on a dresser in the now locked house. Vital to the understanding of this story is a bedroom window that was meant to serve as the entry point throughout the duration of the lockout. It is unclear how the boys got into the house to open the window, but what Dory made perfectly clear is that Clint shut and locked the window after a directive that forbid this action. As Dory is regaling us with the improbable tale, Clint staggers off in the direction of the bathroom. He knew the location because "Celine Dion" had previously asked the waitress. As he passes our table, he issues another directive for Dory to "play in traffic".
At this point, YN and I control our laughter enough to offer some practical suggestions about locksmiths.
D: "I ain't paying for no locksmith. I don't even care if he misses his flight. Do you just have the number of a locksmith? Do you just carry that around? Who does that?"
YN: "Well, there is probably a phone book."
D: "No, I am not getting a locksmith."
C: "You super dumb asshole. My clothes are in that house. There is no chance that I am going to sleep in a real bed tonight."
D: "My roommate is going to come home at eight tomorrow night. He has a key. The only problem is that my brother's flight is leaving at three. I guess I can just mail him his suitcase."
C: "How the fuck am I supposed to fly without my suitcase."
YN and I inquire about his access to his credit card and ID to assure him that he could catch his flight without anything else. He derides these suggestions as stupid. We are in fact "super dumb" because we cannot understand his dilemma. At this point, Dory has pulled his chair up to our table, and Clint is channeling some of his energy into standing. He alternates between standing in our personal space and in the aisle where people need to walk. At this point, both brothers are drinking beer. Dory forgets about the house momentarily and resumes hitting on us/telling us his life story. He is explaining a typical Christmas and his family's new found love of board games.
D: "You know like that one game. Apples to Apples. Yeah, that is pretty fun. But the one I really like starts with a U."
Dory is trying desperately to remember the name of this mysterious game. YN suggests that he explain the rules to us to help him remember. All the sudden, a light bulb goes off in his head.
D: "Balderdash. That's the best one. My whole family loves that game. Even my brother, but he is too much of a tough guy to admit it.
Clint stumbles close enough to our table to say.
C: "Apples to Apples."
YN and I are laughing.
D: "You girls are alright. You are not fully fraudulent."
As we are laughing at this comment and trying to decipher whether or not he previously thought we are spies, Clint becomes enraged and starts verbally harassing other customers. I try to lecture him about how this is my favorite bar and how it would be lovely if he wouldn't break all the furniture or alienate all the city residents.
C: "I just don't give a fuck about anything. I am a fucking dick."
D: "Yo man, calm down. These girls are really nice. Listen to them."
Just then an elderly couple walks past our table. Clint addresses the lady.
C: "You want to take a mustache ride."
She and her husband hurry past, and YN and I pray that they do not know about urbandictionary.com. We chastise Clint for this comment.
C: "Fine, if you guys don't like me, I will just be friends with these fat retards."
He loudly directs this comment toward a group of four skinny to average sized men sitting beside us. His beer is waving dangerously over their heads, and it is clear that they do not consider friendship an option. During this time, Dory is repeating again the story of how the house became locked. Most of the details have changed, but his incredulity is constant.
D: "How does that happen? How does my brother lose the keys?"
I stupidly interject that the real problem is that he closed the window. This triggers another angry rage from Clint.
C: "You are a super dumb fucker. Who uses a window to get into their house?"
D: "People who lost their keys because of some British chick."
C: "Stinky Beaver"
D: "Doushe bag, OMG its 8:57 I thought it was like 3am, what are we going to do?"
C: "Well I know what we aren't going to do, go to your apartment. Who the fuck gets locked out of their own apartment?"
D: (checks phone again) "Dude its 9:00 I thought it was at least midnight we can't get into my apartment until at least 8 tomorrow night"
C: "I'm going to fucking miss my flight, why don't you go play in traffic"
After a loving brotherly name calling exchange. Dory proceeds to turn his attention back to us and inquire "Where are you guys from?" In midst of laughing at Dory's unfortunate lack of memory, we again attempt to politely suggest ways that may improve the brothers' lot in life. After asking if Dory had heard back from his friend about whether they could stay at his apartment, Dory returns our suggestion made approximately one hour earlier
D: "You guys wouldn't happen to have the number for a locksmith?"
Surprisingly, Dory has a moment of clarity and begins dialing the number that YN had found for him. While making the call Dory continues to explain that he has no faith that this will actually correct his problem of being locked out of his apartment. His conversation with the locksmith is punctuated by asides to us.
D: "He actually answered"
Dory then proceeds to inquire if the locksmith did in fact have the ability to help him with his dilemma. Worried that Dory's short term memory problems would confuse the locksmith on the other side of the phone, I offerred to speak for Dory, but was refused. Miraculously Dory is able to convey the necessary information to the locksmith. After hanging up the phone Dory appears invigorated with new hope that he may enter his apartment in 2010. After a few moments, his phone rings again and Dory appears to be instructing the person on the other line that he will in fact be at his apartment in a few minutes. During this exhange, Dory covers the phone to whisper to us, "He's Mexican."
Dory then proceeds to get ready to rush to his apartment. In his haste he puts his jacket on inside out and is confused when he's unable to work the zipper. I kindly advise him that it might work if he put his jacket on the other way.
D: "I just realized that when you were telling me."
Dory was by far the nicest of the brothers, if not the most intelligent. This left us alone in the presence of Clint. Glitterati gets off work and she joins us at our table with a glass of wine. In this bizarre dinner theater, the audience has grown as the number of actors shrank. Without even trying to disguise our laughter, YN and I are filling Glitterati in on the events of the first act. I am literally crying when I recount the "fraudulent" compliment that we received. Clint seems to be sobering up a bit due to the coffee without alcohol that I keep ordering for him, and he is mostly quiet as he is sitting at our table staring at us. However, any time the words key, house, bed, or brother are mentioned, he starts cursing and shaking his head anew. He repeats the same story over and over again and keeps asking, "Who gets locked out of their own apartment." I share with Glitterati that a sure fire way to rile the beast is to mention the window. She tries it. It works. These boys are nothing if not predictable in their repetition. As Clint recounts his brother's past history of idiocy, we are staring on in amusement.
C: "Why are you looking at me. Am I a clown? I am. I am a clown. I am a dick. I am an asshole. What do you think? You think we are some lost causes. My fucking brother comes in here like if he sits in a bar long enough the house will magically unlock itself."We try again to explain that his brother has left to go meet the locksmith. This does nothing to appease his anger over all the ways his little brother has failed him. We try to distract him with new topics of conversation. Glitterati asks what he does in Charleston.
C: "I work in a resteraunt. It's simple."
We try in vain to learn more about his life, but he refuses to elaborate on his declarations that "it's simple." Clint fumbles with his phone for a few minutes. It is unclear if there is anyone on the line, and when we ask if it is Dory, he tells us that he has "not heard from that kid." We resume talking, but a couple of minutes later Clint gets a little emotional. He clutches his chest around the heart region and starts professing his love for his brother.
C: "It is like my brother is doing something. He is really trying to get the house unlocked. I thought he was going to sit here and just wait for magic, but he is really out there trying to get into his house. He isn't even breaking the window or nothing."
We have no idea what prompted the sudden realization that Dory was in fact meeting with a locksmith. He had rejected this notion the hundreds of times that we brought it up. Not willing to risk a return to his feelings of animosity, we encouraged him to pay his tab and go meet his brother at the house. There was only one explosion of anger.
Glitterati: "You have a great smile."
C: "What? Are you being sarcastic. Are you being condescending? You are a super bitch. I love bitches."
Glitterati: "You are not good at accepting compliments."
C: "Shut up."
Eventually the tab is paid and Clint departs. We sit there laughing for another 20 minutes before we leave as changed women. We swear that we are going to stop using the word asshole so liberally because it really only applies to boys who ask 80 year old women if they want a mustache ride. We promise ourselves that we will make extra copies of our house keys to distribute to friends. We reaffirm our love for our less caustic siblings. We know that in the future we will compliment people by assuring them that they are not "fully fraudulent". We make plans to use this plot line to pick up boys on our birthday. We acknowledge that 2010 has already provided us with as much laughter as all the months of 2009 combined.
Thank god those boys were pretty - their survival is dependent upon their dimples.
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