We're Disgusting

Last night was a spectacular night. Oh so spectacular.

Being the modern woman that I am, I decided that it was high time I took the Minimalist out on a date. Being the modern, broke man that he is, the Minimalist accepted. So after he got out of class (because apparently he goes to class, despite my by efforts to convince myself he doesn’t) he came over, drank a beer, and we were off.

After hearing that Mellow Mushroom had vegan cheese I decided that I needed a pizza smothered in it. When I mentioned that to my day, I think he was more than apprehensive, but I won some points by choosing to sit outside and because there was an extensive beer list.

I scored even more points when I suggested peppers, onions, and mushrooms on the pizza. Apparently, his mother doesn’t like any of those so he is constantly surprised when a girl likes them.

At least I know it’s not an entirely Freudian connection.

We even did the couple thing with his side, her side meat—Italian sausage for him, jerk tofu for me. Are we sickeningly adorable, yet?

Just wait.

Dinner continued wonderfully. The pizza was damn delicious. And when he ordered his second beer there was a mix-up and I got one, too. I was wary at first, but it didn’t take much prompting to get me to drink it. I even shared a few sips with him.

Disgusting? It gets worse.

Once we ate our fill, drank our beers, and stayed until they started cleaning up around so, we walked back to my car. I parked a few blocks away so we spent the entire walk back with our arms around each other, laughing and chatting. He even carried my box of leftovers.

We have gotten so disgustingly cute over this past year. Just think, I used to ignore him at parties.

Wait, I still do that.

I guess I haven’t matured that much yet. But I did win this date.

Neighborly Love

Long time no talk. Have you missed me?

Don’t answer that.

Needless to say, my life has been more than a bit of a ride lately. I’m thoroughly back into the swing of life here at Crunchy College. Want a crash course update?

Alright. But before we begin I just want to make sure everyone is seating with their safety belts fastened. Please keep your hands inside at all times.

Here we go, kids.

Things with Misfit have settled down. That’s due in part because I stopped thinking like a little girl at a candy store and in part because he stopped taking off his shirt and trying to climb on top of me. So it appears now that we’re just trying to be friends. It is actually working quite well, especially since I’ve recently become friendly with some of his friends—Taco*, Bearded**, and Uncensored***. Those budding friendships have worked out quite nicely for Misfit and I because we’re no longer stuck in the small, far too cerebral box we had been in.

Westchester is also joining in on a bit of the new friend fun with Taco and Uncensored. Her and Uncensored have taken a bit of an infatuation with each other. I wouldn’t categorize it as “like,” because neither of them are the other’s type. But for the time being they’re enjoying things. And as long as it doesn’t go much further I’m happy to sit back in Taco and my vomit nest and watch movies while they giggle and coo.

Rugby season is in full swing now with at least one game almost every weekend.

And we’re back into all our old traditions—Hello Jello, socialing, checking out the opposing men, and playing with puppies while people knock the shit out of each other.

It wasn’t long into the first rugby weekend that I realized my endurance has gone to hell. What happened to the girl that could eat a bowl of oatmeal, drink all day, pass out for a couple of hours, then wake up and drink all night? I miss her. There won’t be a game this weekend, but I’m not too terribly broken up about it. We’re out of jello mix anyway.

The Minimalist and I are still thick as thieves. Sometimes, when I really think about it, I get far too freaked out. Sometimes, like after I leave his humble abode, I feel all warm and fuzzy inside. But regardless of any fuzziness I may be feeling there will be no FaceSpace titles coming anytime soon. Well, unless they suddenly create a “fucking” or “following around” one. We decided the day those pop up we’ll make it official.

But that seems unlikely anytime soon. So in the mean time we’re just doing what we do best—drinking too much, engaging in PDA, bickering, and being disgustingly cute. And while I’m sure most trained mental health professionals would say this isn’t the healthiest type of relationship for, the Minimalist doesn’t object and he is in the process of becoming a trained mental health professional. That counts, right?

Oh, and I’m also going to classes. Three classes plus the paper makes me a very busy, very caffeinated girl. I’m falling in love with French, getting slightly burnt out with editing, and managing to hold my own in a probably too advanced English class. I’m getting into the thick of midterms, which is the time every semester that I first question the value of a college degree and think it would just be easier to sell weed for the rest of my life. I’ve also recently started watching old episodes of Weeds, so that could have something to do with it, also.

Either way, my days are slightly less fun than they should be right now. But don’t worry, kids, because my nights are still plenty fun. And plenty wine-tastic.

*Taco-my neighbor who has a love of virgins and the ability to nuzzle like a puppy.

**Bearded-another neighbor, this one tall and slightly mysterious. And he has an extensive sweater collection.

***Uncensored-yet another neighbor. This is has a love of hardcore music, skinny jeans, and scary movies.

Boo PoPo

Few weekends have a theme as pronounced as this one. And this one screamed…

“Fuck the Police”

It started Friday when Nickname and a few of my peers decided that it was time they started learning the art of selling booze out of backpacks. Yup, the youngest upper classmen have stepped up to the log bench and started their own bonfire.

Or, maybe I should say that they attempted to step up. But a little scheduling snafu and a stupid freshman rained on it. And then PSafe came. So despite it being barely past 11 the fire was extinguished, though hopefully not along with our not-terribly-shitty reputations.

From there we all piled into cars and headed over to the scheduling snafu—a house party.

We got there right as things were at their peak. The music was good. The pong table was hot. And all my favorite people (including a recent alum that I’ve always had a strange, inexplicable liking towards) were there. I hit my party-groove and was sipping and mingling immediately.

Everything was smooth talking guys and wonderfully biting drinks when all of a sudden I heard the word that every underage kid dreads—COPS!

Normally the cops come, the homeowner goes outside to talk, the cops tell everyone to shut up, and we all disperse calmly. But this was in no way a normal situation.

The homeowner went outside, the cops talked, the homeowner came inside and told us to shut up, and the cops continued sitting outside.

Eventually all the youngins’ were advised to leave or risk a popo encounter, so I filled my car with Westchester and Mr. Jackson and tried to leave. But the cops had most of the roads out blocked. So a few crazy turns later we managed to make it back to campus. I promptly dropped them at the curb and made my way to the Minimalist’s where I learned the reason behind all the hooplah.

Apparently, a couple of girls who had been walking to the party got hit by a drunk driver. The names or condition of any of the girls is unknown.

And despite the fact that cops never showed up to Saturday’s shindig their presence was still felt in the form of a creepy old man.

DeVirgin, who was throwing the party, apparently has some more than slightly odd neighbors living behind him. And from what I can gather the middle-aged father heard to festive noise and decided that him, his Great Dane, and 16-year old son needed to join in. So they hopped the fence—with the dog—and told DeVirgin that if they weren’t allowed to get their party on then the cops would make sure no one could.

Because that’s the mature thing to do, right middle-aged man?

So they stayed. And the dog pooed in the house. And the son was nowhere to be found. And the father got far drunker than me and hit on everything that may have had a vagina between its legs.

The cops never showed, but needless to say, the presence of a man old enough to be my father and creepy enough to be on To Catch a Predator was in no way appreciated.

But I hate to end things on a sour note, so I’ll tell you something I did appreciate about this weekend:

I appreciate that Westchester and I have the same taste in so much and that she decided to go to my favorite veg-head restaurant for her birthday dinner.

And I appreciate all those lovely ladies.

Crash Course: Grass is Green

Ladies,

I’m going to give you some advice I suggest you heed.

Don’t rock the boat!

If you have yourself a man/boy-friend and it’s good -- not just good to the point where you haven’t found anything better, but good to the point where you’re not even looking -- then don’t think for whatever reason that the grass will be greener on any other side that you might come across.

Take if from a girl who has fallen for fake grass more than a time too many, it is never greener.

And now, just as I had to last year with Connecticut and Arch Enemy, I have to remind myself of just that.

Don’t get your panties in a bunch, though, because the Minimalist and I are still sailing smoothly. We’re peachy keen, over the moon, and disgustingly happy. But there’s also Misfit*.

I met Misfit when he wrote for my section in the newspaper. He asked for my number under the guise of needing my help, and then invited me to his place under the guise of wanting me to go over his draft with him. Things evolved from there, thanks in part to GoodMan telling him that the Minimalist and I were a thing of the past.

While Misfit is undeniably wonderful and attractive and intelligent and a whole host of other favorable adjectives, I’m not convinced that his lawn is any better than the Minimalist’s. Ginger suggested a pro/con list and while normally I’m a not-so-closested list-lover, I can’t begin to compare them because they’re so completely different.

Misfit and I shop at a natural foods co-op. The Minimalist and I screw with freshman boys.

Misfit meditates. The Minimalist drinks.

Both make me laugh.

Once again, don’t take this as any kind of confession of feelings or intentions. Take this as what it is—advice on how to handle a situation that will undoubtedly spring up at some point, and one that I will never know how to handle.

If only Twin was here to tell me what to do this time…

*Misfit-GoodMan’s former roommate.

Heads Up

In college don’t be surprised if…

…You find yourself turning into the kind of person you HATE by writing complicated, confusing academic papers with big words and sentences like…

“’Six Characters in Search of an Author’ is an Italian modern play that attempts to define reality by blurring the lines of reality under the pretense of the theater and the battle between actors that play characters and characters that really are characters, all of which, I believe, is an allegory for the refraction that occurs when reading a text designated as world literature.”

Yes, that is what a 64-word thesis sentence looks like.

…Your roommate walks into the room and says she wants a piercing. And half an hour later goes from this,

to this.

With a little of this

in between.

…You find a penis drawn in the dirt on your car. Because penises are funny at any age.

… People (mos’def not me, mind you) go on dates to the dining hall. Or even more gag-tastic, double dates.

…You watch at least 2 of your ‘mates eat Chef Boyardee in a day.

It’s the new Ramen, haven’t you heard?

…Especially when you go to Crunchy College, you debate between getting to class on time and pressing your tofu.

Or maybe that last one is just me.

Manly Man-Boys

Due to a little drunken research with Twin one night, I was able to find out the date of that fateful night when the Minimalist and I first shared spit and a bed. That date (which I am choosing to keep quiet, though you don’t have to try too terribly hard to figure it out) has recently passed.

Yes, kids, that mean our pseudo anniversary just came and went.

And how does that make me feel?

Fan-freaking-tastic!

A day or so before the big day 2 things happened. First, I got far too drunk and, after instructing the Minimalist to finish his drink so I could tell him something creepy (and then having to reassure him that I was not carrying his spawn), told him.

He reacted far better than I expected—he quickly chugged another beer and kissed me on the forehead.

And people wonder why I like this man-boy.

But the next day another, far less blush-inducing thing happened—I found an old note from my ex. Him and I are no longer speaking for several reasons, to say the least, but before he showed his true colors we dated for a year and a half. He is the reason I avoid FaceSpace relationships, or any actual relationship, like the plague.

The note I found was from the very beginning, when things were still good and we were still leaving each other bags of gummy bears.

And it made me sad.

Sad because things had been so good and cute and fun and then quickly changed.

Sad because to this day I’m still sporting those scars.

Sad because there is always the chance that the Minimalist and I could end up that way.

But then sadness changed to nausea.

And I spent the rest of the weekend drinking too much (yeah, again) and being probably disgustingly cute with the Minimalist. Because, oh yeah, we have apparently gotten more disgusting.

We text now. He’s spent a handful of nights in my dorm. He kisses me in public a lot and jokes about doing so whenever he sees guys hitting on me just to see the reaction. His parents like me.

I’m surprised we aren’t constantly serenaded by the sounds of people retching around us. So who gives a fuck about the world’s douche-y-est ex. I’m not going to let him turn my life into a fuck shit stack anymore.

And I’m going to continue to enjoy my minimal time with my man-boy friend. I just won’t let him borrow anything.

Score So Many

Sorry for leaving you hanging there for a while, kiddos. But this little co-ed had some business to attend to.

And what do I mean by business?

Setting up (what is in the process of becoming) my awesome swinging bachelorette pad. And I call it that for many reasons: we have a giant beanbag chair, there is literally a Carmen Electra “exercise” pole in the center, we will soon be getting a purple shag rug, and the obvious, all 8 of us are unmarried ladies.

Which brings me to business number 2—bonding with my ‘mates. There are some of the old cast of characters—Westchester, Ginger, Hookar, and Nickname (formally Roomie-Dearest)—but there are also some new faces—Spacey*, Homegirl**, and CC***.

After spending a very long day moving in Saturday we needed to kick up our heels. What better way to do that, and bond in the process, than by popping some champagne, inviting over a few friends and playing a rousing game of Never Have I Ever.

But this wasn’t your grandmother’s NHIE. In this instance you drank if you hadn’t done it (because we hate to exclude people). Needless to say, everyone enjoyed themselves.

And we enjoyed ourselves at the bonfire, all the while drinking, finding friends, and checking out this year’s crop of first-years freshmen. There were 2 that stuck out to me: a boy that “made moves” and a girl with little more than marriage on the brain.

Should make for an interesting class.

Sunday dawned bright and early, with my usual inability to sleep past 9. It was a day full of little consequence (unless you count figuring out that I could never support myself as a stripper) until I started getting ready for bed.

Let me preface this recount by saying that I had known all day that the Minimalist would be coming back Sunday. I had known for a week. But not wanting to be That Girl, I didn’t contact him, nor did I have any intention to until Monday.

But there came a point, as I was “exercising”, that my phone buzzed. Much to my surprise, it was the Minimalist wanting to see me. I’ll skip the details, but when I finally laid myself down to sleep he was right next to me in my bed.

This is the first time in far too long that I’ve had a man-boy in my bed. And it is the straight up first time there has been one in my college bed. Needless to say, I was mildly freaking out (and not just because my comforter was askew in the duvet cover and my baby blanket was floating around somewhere).

The man-boy that I liked was in my bed! In my room! This was uncharted territory. But I certainly didn’t mind. I slept like a baby…until my 7:45 alarm.

Yup, 8:30 class twice a week. M’favorite.

The Minimalist left on his walk of shame back to his new house and I rushed out to a full day of classes and meetings and whatnot.

And now I’m dead tired, but beyond happy. With everything.

And I just heard this weekend is a rugby weekend.

Score so many for sophomore year.

*Spacey-a girl with a love of drunk dancing and a slight inability to follow most trains of thought.

**Homegirl-she can only be described as nice, because she is (though I sense a bit of a wild streak waiting to come out).

***CC-short for Community College, where she went last year. And while she is wonderfully chill, she also appears to be testing her new, out of state waters.

Boro Briefings

Here I am, once again in the Boro that I love so much.

As I write this I am on the verge of taking my first sophomore nap, so I’ll be brief in anticipation of a much longer, more detailed account to come.

I left the Dirty Dirty yesterday. And while I was thrilled to death to be returning to the very green campus and all the less than crunchy hippie friends I have there, I still found myself a bit sad to be going.

What was the root of this sadness, you ask?

Leaving Rocky. Yes, I nearly cried over leaving my dog. But after all the doggy hooplah that this summer entailed I’m sure you can understand.

And there was also a good bit of sadness over leaving ChiChi and Twin. Despite the fact that this year showed me just how close we can remain when rarely seeing each other, I am still saddened by our new separation. Especially since I royally fucked up saying g’bye to each of them.

(Yes, ChiChi and Twin, I take full responsibility for our lack of proper g’byes. I suck. I apologize.)

But yet here I am, in my room in my suite in my dorm which more than slightly resembles a jail. But more on that at another time.

So for now, as I lay my head down to nap, I leave you with this:

While I was for a bit, as I always am, uncertain of where and how I fit in College, returning today to a suite full of lovely ladies, I know exactly where I fit. And now it’s just a matter of making myself feel comfortable.

G’night for now, lovers.

A Wee Bit of Reflection

It’s been a year since I started this little labor of love, my real-time coming of age tale. And oh boy, what a year it has been.

If you had told me last year that this is how I would end up, that this would have been my life, I would have laughed.

Going into my freshman year I was going to be the life of every party. I was going to be single. I was going to be an honor student, a super achiever. I was going to be neat.

Well, one of those things held true—I made dean’s list both semesters and landed the most rossome editor position ever (and I’ve already got my eyes and heart set on my next position). But neat? Single? Life of the party?

Not even.

I’m just as disorganized. I still fall asleep the moment I open a textbook. And while I’m fun to be around I’m never going to be the girl to get the party started. Instead, there have been plenty of times that I opted to stay in with a glass bottle of wine and some Hulu. And I’m okay with that. I’ve accepted that I’m a messy, semi-wallflower with narcoleptic tendencies.

And I’ve finally accepted my less-than-single status, too, which may have been harder than accepting that this co-ed isn’t the hardest of partiers.

Because while it seems almost nothing has turned out the way that I anticipated, I wouldn’t change a thing. And it took a night in Milly to make me realize that.

Saturday night ChiChi invited her nearest and dearest friends (and some randoms) to her new, gorgeous, big, old house (which is decorated exactly like her parents’ house) to properly warm it. Of course, Twin and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Twin brought Chihuahua. Green Bean and the Fertilizer were there with three of his friends from Boston.

We all went out to dinner at a place called the Pickle Barrel.

Then the ladies returned to ChiChi’s to pretty ourselves over a bottle of organic champagne I brought back from Paris.

The boys returned shortly after, along with ChiChi’s 2 roommates, so we mixed a tub of hunch punch and got the party started.

More people showed up later. We danced. We mingled. We drank.

I started my evening talking to an ex-Marine. We talked about men missing chunks of skull and the dangers of life after deployment (at which point I mentioned something Papa, always the insurance man, told me about military motorcycle deaths). Then I spent the rest of the evening talking to one of the Boston boys about their upcoming trip to Disney world, road tripping, cooking and being a crazy vegan. The more I talked with him the more pronounced my Yankee accent became. And when it came time to go to bed I threw myself on the most uncomfortable Ikea pull-out couch. The Boston boy happened to fall there, too.

Now before you begin chanting adulterer and demanding crimson “A”s, let me make fully clear that we did nothing, all of our clothes stayed on, and that I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

The next morning I woke feeling better than anticipated, downed my trademark hangover cure (warm lemon water and oatmeal), helped ChiChi clean a bit while listening to her gripe about her first 8am class the next day, then returned to the homestead.

So what did I learn from my 24 hours in Milly?

That my family and my roots are important to me. That I don’t dislike the Dirty Dirty as much as I always thought I used to. That I actually really like the Minimalist. That I really, truly and completely love food and that my current food-related ambitions are not ill-advised. And when I heard ChiChi talk about starting back to school I got a wee bit jealous. Jealous of 8am classes and papers and mounds of reading?

Yes. Because College is where I belong. College is where most of my life is now. Twin and ChiChi, and the rest of the gang, are always going to be massively important parts of my life, but College is now. And, as strange as this sounds, all the work that comes with it is just icing on the cake.

So, cheers, friends. To a good year past, and another good year to come.

Updates

We put Luke down.

He attacked Rocky again. The vet said it would be unsafe to give him to another family.

It sucks.

And 2 days later I had my surgery. That went fine. I find out the results in a week.

Paris, Love

Oh Paris, how I love thee!

You’ll be happy to know that I was able to put aside my puppy problems and really enjoy my time in gorgeous, romantic, magical Paris.

Want some highlights?

Of course you do!

Instead of camping out at the local Best Western (because I’m pretty sure there was one in Paris) Papa decided that a family of 5 needed more than 2 standard rooms—we needed an apartment. So we rented a 3 bedroom, 3 bath apartment with 2 sitting rooms, kitchen, dining room and laundry room overlooking the Seine and Pont Sully (one of the bridges that leads to Ile St Louis).

Pretty freaking fantastic, right?

Another little tidbit about the apartment that’s worth mentioning—the woman who lived below us.

Ever see people with dogs in little suitcases on airplanes? Well most of the time (when people can afford to shell out the $100 for a bag and $120 each way to bring the dog onboard) those bags are Sherpa Bags and the woman who lived below the apartment—Gayle Martz—just happened to invent them.

All the celebrities carry them, so you know she’s made a pretty penny. Actually I’m positive she’s made a pretty penny because she made a point of telling us that she owns homes in southern California, NYC and Paris.

Life outside the apartment was pretty great, too.

We wined.

We dined.

We champagned.

We strolled down small cobelstone streets lined with adorable shops selling everything from glass figurines (Twin’s present), wines from a vineyard in Dirty Dirty’s sister city in France, every kind of kitchen dish and utensil imaginable (including knives that say “pizza” in the blade), to mountains of spices.

Though my favorite store was easily Shakespeare and Company.

It's quite possibly the most famous English bookstore in all of France and was once a favorite spot of Hemingway's.

We saw the last stage of the Tour de France, which was lovely despite the fact that Contador won.

No one likes a bitch, Contador.

And I even got to drag the family through the Louvre for a few hours, all the while impressing them with my newly acquired art history knowledge.

^On the other side of this wall is only the Mona Lisa. That attention whore.^

Though the highlight of my trip was my personal picnic in my favorite park—Place de Vosges.

What made this picnic so wonderful?

I got to explore the city by myself in search of a pita full of falafel, which I ate on a bench in the sun while watching some of the cutest kids run around the park.

Why is it that children screaming is so much less annoying when they’re speaking French?

Overall, it was a fabulous trip that I wish had lasted longer, especially since the real life that I returned to is far from thrilling or even pleasant.

Mother refuses to do anything about Luke. And I have to miss a trip to ChiChi’s beach condo with all my friends because I’m having my surgery then.

Super fun, right?

Brotherly Love

So I’m in Paris. The City of Lights. The City of Love. One of my favorite cities on earth.

But still I’m a tad down.

Why you ask?

Puppy problems. No, this is not my way of saying trouble with puppy love or anything of the sort. I’m talking about my dogs—Rocky and Luke.

As I’ve said before, these dogs are my loves, but especially Rocky. The more he ages the more he becomes the cutest, disgruntled old man-dog. He walks around and sulks. He barks. He won’t let you help him on to his chair when his hips hurt him too much to jump, no matter how badly he wants to get up. He sleeps a lot. But the second I get on the couch with a certain blue blanket he’s right there by my side, curled up in the nook of my legs with his little head resting on my knees. And the second I get out a treat he’s the first one sitting at my feet, looking up at me with his big blinky eyes.

I’ve had him for ¾ of my life.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Luke, too. He’s one of the happiest, most charming dogs ever. He’s always excited to see you. Always willing to play. And not nearly as neurotic as Rocky was at his age.

^Yes, this is a supper old picture. He has gotten much better looking since then.^

That is why what happened Tuesday night absolutely breaks my heart.

Rocky and Luke got into a fight. But this wasn’t their normal fight where they bark and growl and nip a little until one of them walks off. This was a big, huge, ferocious fight. But the worst part is it was completely unprovoked.

Luke was lying on his pillow. Rocky and Mother walked past. Luke lunged at Rocky and grabbed him by the throat.

I’ll skip the details because, frankly, I can’t bare to think about them. The gist is that the fight went on for about 15 minutes and I honestly thought Rocky was going to die.

I had never seen this side of Luke before. Sure, I knew he had a ferocious side based on the multitude of dead chipmunks and salamanders he was constantly leaving on our doorsteps, but never in a million year did I think he would turn that on my beloved Rocky. But as I sat in Mother’s bathroom, where we had Rocky sequestered after the fight, watching him shake and pace and refuse to fall asleep despite the Benadryl we gave him, I was informed that this was not the first time this had happened. A week or so earlier Luke had done the same thing. It was not nearly as intense of an attack, and a few quick hits with a magazine and Luke released. While the details of the first fight didn’t scar me too much, the knowledge of it and the fact that this behavior of Luke’s was becoming a habit was traumatizing to no end.

So Tuesday night while Mother, Brother and I were gathered in the bathroom watching as poor Rocky walked in circles, boasting a bloody eye, cuts in his ears, puncture wounds on his quickly swelling neck and a tail that was firmly tucked between his legs, we made the heart wrenching decision that we couldn’t keep Luke.

At the time the decision wasn’t too difficult. I was mad at Luke and only concerned with Rocky’s health and wellbeing. Not a single other thing crossed my mind. So of course it seemed reasonable that since it appeared Luke was going to continue attacking Rocky we should protect the obvious (vulnerable and pitty-worthy) victim.

But then Tuesday turned into Wednesday. And I saw Luke out in his yard lying by the gate, just waiting for us to come get him. I saw him start jumping with excitement anytime we walked out the door. And when a potential adopter came over to meet him I saw how wonderfully charming and good looking he is. And my heart broke even more.

I don’t want to give him up (or worse, put him down if we can’t find a new family), but we don’t have any other options. Mother knew all along that Luke shouldn’t be with other Jack Russells (his breeder apparently warned the rescue, who warned Mother’s friend, who warned her). And it is in no way fair to make Rocky spend the last few years of his life as Luke’s potential punching bag.

All this heartbreak is why I spent the entire 1.5-hour car ride to the airport, the 2 hours of waiting at the airport and various parts of our 8-hour flight crying. I’m trying to persevere (and find a home for Luke from overseas) for the sake of my trip (and Papa who is constantly concerned with our fun levels), but it’s difficult.

These dogs are like my brothers.

PS-I'll try to make my next post more upbeat and about Paris.

Finally...

Limbo over.

I got the call yesterday and now I know—severe cervical dysplasia.

Without getting terribly technical or scientific this means that I have the most advanced and developed stage of precancerous cells. Doc recommends LEEP—Loop Electrosurgical Excising Procedure—but I haven’t agreed to anything yet. I’ll definitely be having a chat (or 2) with Doc, and maybe getting a second opinion, before anything is scheduled.

But for the moment I’m just going to sit with it and let it all soak in. It’s a lot to take in.

Mother keeps saying that this shouldn’t be happening to someone so young, which isn’t comforting to me in the least. When I told Father (who had been completely kept in the closet up till this point) he took it surprisingly well. He said he would be doing some research. And speaking of research, Mother has a friend, ML, who has gone through similar procedures so I’ll be relying on her for advice and support.

I’m going to get through this.

Uh Oh

I realize it’s been quite a while since I’ve updated you on my summer shenanigans. That’s not for lack of excitement, though. Believe me, there has been plenty going on.

Papa and co came for a birthday/Father’s day visit.

We laughed. We cried. We went out to dinner and Papa didn’t trust that where I told him to park the car was safe so he moved it half way through the meal.

Only a few short days after Papa flew back up to VAB Brother, his friend Spencer Pratt* (SP) and I hopped in Brother’s sensible Volvo sedan and drove the long 10 hours (it was 11 hours for us because Brother loves to stop a lot) up to join him. The next day the 3 of us and Papa jumped in his equally sensible, but slightly more masculine Rover and drove up to DC to pick up Westchester and take in a Mets v Nats game.

The Mets won. We were happy. We were tired.

The next 2 days (which included the 4^th) were spent getting too much sun on the beach with the neighborhood families.

I think everyone of Sister’s posse got (or pretended to get) stung by a jellyfish. While this was going on the parents were drinking coconut rum.

It was a good day.

Brother and SP drove home the next day while Westchester and I did some shopping and entertained LilBro** and a friend of his in our hotel room. By entertained I mean drank a handle of Sailor, no sexual favors included.

Westchester left a couple of days later and I made my way down to the Boro.

Just like last time I invaded the Minimalist’s castle (which is the same borrowed castle as last time), but without any of the silly fears. And once again we spent (probably) far too much time laying in bed watching Deadliest Warrior. And once again, we were quite happy with that.

Once difference from last time is that this weekend was full of belated birthday celebrations. The Minimalist’s 21^st birthday was the 5^th so in honor of the momentous day I gave him a nice bottle of whiskey. And in honor of my less momentous birthday he swallowed his masculine pride and walked in Victoria’s Secret to buy me a gift card (because he knows I love undies but also knows that if he had bought me any it would have been a tad creepy [and probably the wrong size]). After that he also swallowed some fake chicken at Boba House, my favorite vegetarian restaurant. He swore he would never go there, even refusing when ManLove wanted to go.

I was grinning like a fool, to say the least.

I returned to the Dirty Dirty Monday after 12 days away.

And that night was spent hanging out on Adult’s porch listening to Grill Master teach ChiChi’s Frenchie*** incorrect English. Or just say outrageous things to here. My favorite:

GM: “If you hang out here too much you’ll shoot your friends and bury them in the backyard.”

F: looks confused

GM: “Why am I like this? Maybe because when I was younger my father put dimes in a sock and beat me with them. But don’t worry, I got used to the bruises and learned to hide in the closets.”

Why that’s not exactly something to joke about it was ridiculously funny because all Frenchie understood was “dimes,” “father,” and “hide in the closest,” leading her to believe Grill Master was Looney Toons because his father hid his money in the closet.

I think you just had to be there.

This all seems like fun, but not terribly noteworthy summer fun, right?

If this was the whole story it sure would have been, but there’s more.

About a month ago I went for my yearly physical, which revealed that I had abnormal cells on my cervix. This find lead to another test, which turned into a biopsy, the day before leaving for Vagina Bitch. I was supposed to get my results the 7^th, but that date has come and gone and I’m still waiting. And I’m still nervous.

I probably shouldn’t be (I’m young, healthy with no known family history of cervical cancer), but I am. I can’t help it.

So during all this family, friendly, sunny fun I’ve had this little gnawing thought at the back of my mind. Not fun.

But really more than nervous I’m just ready to know. Once I know I can get out of this horrid limbo situation I’ve been living in. And we all know how I feel about limbo…

*Spencer Pratt-I call him this not because he shares any of SP’s qualities, but because they once both sported flesh-colored beards.

**LilBro-a fellow GuilCo sophomore-to-be who reminds me unbelievably of Brother, especially when drunk

***Frenchie-ChiChi’s mother is the definition of Francophile and somehow managed to find a teenage French girl to stay with them for a month a few years ago. Well, the girl has come back for another month-long visit.