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.

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.

Burfday

Yesterday was my birthday. I am 19.

Last year I was cruising around town in Twin’s car sporting a plastic tiara and grinning like a fool as she snapped pictures of my celebrating my transition into legal-status by buying cigarettes, lottery tickets, and a Play Boy.

This year is decidedly less climactic. There was no party with all my friends. There’s nothing I waited until yesterday to do.

I woke up way too early yesterday to the sound of mother’s boyfriend grinding coffee. I ate a delicious, but ordinary breakfast. I did some yoga. I ate some lunch. I tried to go berry picking with ChiChi, but the farm was closed.

I was going to go out to dinner with mother tonight, but the restaurant we wanted to go to isn’t open Mondays, so I don’t know what we’ll do.

Today I think I’m going to Milly with ChiChi. GreenBean and The Fertilizer will be there.

Sunday night I made dinner for the family.

In a few days Papa and co will be in town and I’ll celebrate with them.

But that’s it.

Birthdays for me have never been a huge deal. Sure, during the days leading up to My Day I get a little more excited. On my birthday I have a little extra pep in my step. But I’ve never been one for big blowouts or parading around like a princess.

Maybe that’s because I didn’t have a ton of friends as a kid so there weren’t many people to celebrate with. Not to mention that my birthday always seemed to fall during the most popular vacation week so the few friends I had were rarely in town.

And ever since my birthdays have been characterized by a dinner with mother where I got to pick what take out we got. Dinner with Papa where I got to pick where we went. And a gathering of stepmother’s family. I’d always do something with my friends, but it was never anything major.

This year is a perfect example.

I spent the day with ChiChi and the night in one of my favorite places in the Dirty Dirty—Adult’s house with Grill Master, ChiChi, Twin (who came to town just for the occasion) and a bottle. We danced. The men played Call of Duty Live while ChiChi and I dirty talked the nerds on the other end of the microphone. Twin and I attempted to play Call of Duty, but failed miserably. Grill Master talked about how lucky he was to be surrounded “by such beautiful women.”

(Apparently, Adult’s neighbors asked him if he was running a whorehouse because there were always so many girls coming and going. This made me giggle.)

Low key?

You bet.

Fun?

Always.

Special enough to be how I spent my birthday night?

Maybe. Maybe not. But I was happy as a clam so special be damned.

PS-It was also my pup, Rocky's birthday yesterday. He turned 14.

Memory Lanes

Sunday ended up being a trip down memory lane. And it offered varying degrees of enjoyment and sadness.

Twin was in town and invited ChiChi and I to partake in her usual Sunday evening ritual—family dinner. With the prospect of spending the evening with her parents (especially her wonderfully hilarious father, Jumpin JT), her brother and his new girlfriend, we happily accepted.

And without a doubt, this dinner was exactly as it used to be. Twin’s brother said highly inappropriate things. Her mother only freaked out about them cussing and talked to the dogs like they were people. And Jumpin JT talked about how difficult his job was and his newly acquired Warhol poster. ChiChi found fuzz in every single bit of her food (she, as always, was the only one). I chatted with her mother about Real Housewives of New Jersey (her favorite is Teresa). And Twin’s brother’s girlfriend was…nice.

After dinner the Triplets (as we’ve once again been called) ventured over to Adult’s house so we (minus me) could have a drinky-drink before heading back down memory lane in the form of an All Get Out show,

Back in the day this would have been the highlight of my month. I would have carefully picked out an outfit that was functional and hot as hell without looking like I was trying too hard. I would have bought a new pack of smokes for the occasion and gone out of my way to chat it up with the All Get Out boys.

Not this time. I didn’t carefully pick out an outfit (though I did still look pretty good) nor did I buy any smokes. Rather I almost forgot about it entirely.

About half way through the walk from Adult’s to the place they were playing I was hit by a brick in the form of a massive realization—I didn’t even want to go to the show. I knew they people that were going to be there.:

Kids that certainly acted their age. People I didn’t want to see. Other people I used to go to school with that I semi-intentionally stopped talking to when I left for college.

And I knew what my night would consist of:

Forking over money I don’t have to watch bands I don’t like. Walking outside between bands to watch underage kids chain-smoke. Standing in a too crowded room while said immature kids tried to be friends with the bands.

And you know what?

I was completely right.

Within minutes of getting there I was…angry. Everything about that scene was rubbing me the wrong way.

The other 2/3 of the Triplets felt the same way so we went back to Adult’s house until AGO went on. Even then, Twin and ChiChi only stayed for a few minutes.

I was determined to get my money worth so I stayed the entire time. And they were great, as usual.

It was their first song, though, that I remember most.

They played my favorite—Lucky Bastard—but this time it hit me in a completely different way.

“We always want more,” “I love my neighbor more than he loves his wife,” “I want to go home.”

Yeah, this got me.

I often jokingly lament my lack of a home. And it’s not just because I want a set of All Clad pots and pans or that cool futon from Target. It’s because this little flower needs somewhere to spread her roots.

None of Papa’s houses are my home. The Dirty Dirty isn’t my home anymore. The Big Apple certainly isn’t my home, despite my many wishes. And as much as I love the Boro, it still isn’t my home.

I used to want to live a transient Kerouac-style life. But as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that just won’t work for me.

I need somewhere to return to. I need a constant.

I don’t have that now.

Maybe this is another part of growing up—learning to let go of things like that and go with the flow.

If so, I think I need a remedial course.

Back to the Boro

As I mentioned before I was planning of hitting up the Boro for a much needed visit.

Well, after a bit of frenzied packing on Wednesday I was out the door. I drove quick like a rabbit and got up to my town in almost no time (relatively speaking).

First stop on the agenda was to see the manly friend. Since he doesn’t actually have a home he’s being living in Country’s abandon (but still paid for) room. He also happens to be rooming with Cesar, so it’s almost like nothing’s changed.

Another thing that hasn’t changed is how the Minimalist and I act around each other. I found him sitting at his desk watching Deadliest Warrior (possibly my new favorite show, by the way). Out of courtesy to me he shifted his computer to face the bed and we lay down to watch it.

And that’s what we did the majority of the time I was there. It may seem boring, but it was anything but.

It was us in our own little world where tribes of Pacific natives fight Japanese monks and Michael Jackson, Lady Gaga, and Princess Leia watched.

Sounds silly, but it was marvelous. It was extra marvelous considering how nervous I was before my trip.

During a handful of conversations with ChiChi I realized that this was kind of big. Or at least, I thought it was big. My biggest fears?

First, that he would get tired of me. I didn’t expect us to be glued at the hip (and we certainly weren’t here), but I knew we would be spending a good amount of time together, which is something we don’t normally do.

Back in school we would see each other while out at night, I would follow him back to his room, spend the night, lounge in bed for a while the following morning, but I was usually gone by noon. That’s not exactly a massive amount of time.

So the time certainly had me worried. But, as ChiChi can attest, I had a bigger (far more absurd) fear.

My shampoo was going to be in his shower. And he was going to see it.

Believe it or not, that had me really freaked. Something as inconsequential as that may not seem worth a second thought, but to me it meant…commitment. It meant I was living with him, albeit temporarily.

And that made me nervous. So nervous that before I took my bag out of the car I asked him at least 3 times if I could invade his castle.

My fear of commitment is not new. Nor is it a secret. It’s big and real and ugly. And it rears its ugly head quite often.

Hence why the shampoo was a big deal at first.

As to be expected, though, it wasn’t a big deal in actuality. Nothing was a big deal. Nothing I was worried about came to fruition.

My little vacation was perfect. I hung out with the Minimalist, Cesar, Roomie, and a few other lovelies. Mr. Jackson even made an appearance the last night. The Minimalist even took me out on a lovely date (which I got to choose). And we all watched lots of Bob Ross.

And as usual whenever saying g’bye to the manly man, I left an hour later than I planned.

So once again my fears and apprehensions proved to be ridiculous (unlike the amount of clothes I packed, for once). And now I can’t wait until he comes to the Dirty Dirty.

Now that might be cause for concern.

Returning to the Ville

Woah boy!

Saturday night was amazing.

No, it wasn’t just any old success. Success is an understatement. It was an unbelievably, ridiculously amazing smash.

As you know, I was wary about this night. The closer I got to their swinging bachelor pad the more uneasy my stomach began to feel. Upon texting Twin that I had arrived I also texted ChiChi. The text I sent her started with “I’m freaking.”

Obviously, not the best start to a long evening.

Some of my nerves were relieved once I got inside and was greeted with a comfortingly warm hug and a genuine smile from X-Man. I always knew I liked that man.

From there the festivities started.

First on the agenda, some pong on the table Twin painted.

Considering the success I’ve experienced at pong tables recently we decided that we could totally take Blue and Mr. Milly. We were wrong.

After people had their fill of pong someone bonged a beer and all the guests headed down to the water.

Oh, did I not mention that Mr. Milly and X-Man live on a lake, with water, a dock and a boat steps from their porch?

Well, they do. So everyone donned their skimpy suits and grabbed some floats for some fun in the sun. And this is where some of the annoying drama started with Little Girl*.

The word on the street is that her and Blue were doing it and maybe possibly kind of dating. He hadn’t been paying attention to her all day, so of course she decided to have a few drinks and loudly proclaim that she was going to swim across the lake (not a ridiculously far distance, but populated by rushing crafts) without a life jacket.

Everyone protested (thus giving her the attention she wanted), but she did it anyway. Strike 1.

Once the sun got to be too much (and everyone’s cups got too dry) we returned to the house for more ponging and bonging.

At some point we realized one of the guests (who’s name I never really knew) was missing. He was found passed out on the floor of the bathroom. It was only about 6:30.

No need to worry, though. We woke him up, gave me a few bottles of water and he finished his nap in a bed upstairs.

While he was napping Little Girl was crying in another spare bedroom. Blue was intermittently comforting her. And they may or may not have had sex. Strike 2.

At some point in the night Mr. Milly and X-Man decided that if we were going to finish the keg by the end of the night we needed to start taking drastic measures. And so the keg stands begun.

First, X-Man took his turn.

He lasted 21 seconds.

Next, after a little convincing, Blue decided he needed a go.

He lasted 6 seconds.

Then, after the birthday boys had their turns, Mr. Milly (who was manning the pump) turned to the person closest to him. That person just happened to be me.

So up I went.

And 10 or 11 seconds later (once I was sure I had beat Blue) I came down. Victorious.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. We drank. We mingled. We found a Sharpie and everyone proceeded to get tat tat tatted up.

At some point I got a sudden, splitting headache. So I chugged a bottle of water, took an Advil and asked X-Man if I could pass out on his bed for half an hour. He, of course because he’s wonderful like that, said yes.

I thought I set an alarm. I’m pretty sure I set an alarm. But somehow, I woke up at 10am, still in X-Man’s bed, with a half eaten Larabar next to me.

Go figure.

Honestly, I probably shouldn’t have freaked out so much. Quite a bit of time has passed since all the shitty shenanigans of last summer went down. All the people that were involved (including myself) are mature and fully capable of letting bygones be bygones. And we did.

By the time I said g’bye X-Man wasn’t the only person to give me a hug. I got not only a hug, but also an invitation back from Mr. Milly. Blue, of course, didn’t acknowledge me much, but that’s always been his nature so I’m not too terribly surprised. He was too busy babysitting Little Girl, anyway.

*Little Girl- a ridiculously annoying and immature 16 year old girl. She’s chock full-o-mental problems, one of which is her willingness to cause herself harm (or pretend to) or flaunt her issues in order to get attention.

Tripping

Tuesday I spent a thoroughly enjoyable night in the A-T-L at Twin’s apartment (does that make her an adult?) with ChiChi. We dined. We reminisced. We drank. We shopped. We invented a serious drinking game (“Chug your drink and we’ll play Go Fish”).

It was a marvelous time.

Now I’m home for a few days before heading off to another night away. This time, I’m far more nervous than excited.

I’ll be heading to the Ville to party hardy with Twin and Mr. Milly for Mr. Milly’s roommate, X-Man*, and Baby Blue Eyes’** joint birthday party. X-Man is turning 25. Blue is turning 24. I have a bit of history with each.

I’m not going to do into detail about exactly what history means. But I will say that seeing them this weekend (the first time I’ll see/actually spend any real time with them since the fight between Mr. Milly and I) has the potential to be unbelievably awkward, silly, or straight up disastrous. I really don’t think there’s any gray area between those possibilities.

Can you see why I’m nervous?

Not to mention this will be the first time I’ll be spending the night (let alone going to) Mr. Milly’s house since the now infamous night I don’t remember. Twin says he’s past it (and has now shifted the entirety of his hatred onto someone else), but I’m still wary.

I just don’t want to get back in that situation and immediately shift back to last summer. Let’s be honest here. You didn’t know me last summer, but I was a straight up immature skank with skewed priorities and probably a tad bit of a drinking problem. I don’t want to go back to that. Not even for a night.

I like to think (and correct me if I’m wrong) that I’ve grown up and matured a lot over this past year of college. But like an alcoholic (thought not nearly as severe, so don’t freak on me) there are just some situations that test everything about yourself and the new self you’ve created.

And maybe I’m just being overly dramatic. Maybe I’m getting all worked up for nothing (I did just drink a cup of coffee so that could have something to do with it) and everything will be just fine. Maybe we’ll all get along splendidly and if we mention last summer at all it will be in a sincerely joking, no way under-handed, back-handed, or any other-handed, manner.

I hope that’s the case. So far things have been some wonderfully drama free I think any drama now would be a massively unpleasant shock to my system.

On a much lighter and happier note—I’m planning a quick trip up to the Boro to visit the Minimalist and all the other summer school kids. He already said he’d come down during the break between sessions, but I figure that since I’m not doing anything better I might as well go visit. Maybe I’ll even try and time it was a Spirit of the Sit-In Movement happening, so I can keep supporting all that much needed work.

This summer is really starting to shape up.

*X-Man-a big, hearty man who seems to fully embrace “go big or go home.” Between his excessive hook-ups, drinking every night, very adult job, and a few other things, this man never seems to “go home.”

**Baby Blue Eyes-a Starfucks barista that has known me, and mesmorized me with his strangely random statements and ice-blue eyes, since I was 15.