Where do you go from here?

Conversation overheard from my bedroom window, "I mean, like I love you I guess but like I'm drunk and I like think he's so hot too."  Immediately understanding that this was a keeper, I typed it in as my Facebook status.  Days later, however, it kept at me for some reason and, in a night of insomnia, I think I began to understand why. 

Where does the relationship go from there?

In a perfect world, both parties to the conversation were so drunk that neither remembers what was said, or even that there was a conversation.  But, for all of those of us who went to college, we rarely get that lucky.  In a much more probable scenario, they both remember—or at least he remembers.  So what does he do with that?  Does the relationship continue, knowing that really, at least when she’s drunk, there is another “he” that she finds “really hot”?  Does the relationship fade away quietly, both hoping that it is never again mentioned?  Does he confront her?  If he confronts her, what in the WORLD does she say?  I feel like there is no way back from here, as intriguing as it would be for me to be an observer on this relationship. 

Whatever the choice, let’s hope it happens outside my bedroom window again.

Football game number: 1, Hospital transport number: 2

If this the ratio that we’re going to hold on to for the remainder of the fall, we’re in for quite a year. 

I’m first alerted to a girl who has been “dropped off” in my back parking lot and who is now slumped over someone’s vehicle.  We are going to call her DG #1 (as in “drunk girl”) cause this is going to get confusing.  I tell the sober girl to call 911 (we’re going to call her SG #1 for “sober girl”), while I get my rain jacket because OF COURSE it’s raining.  While doing that, another sober girl (SG #2, that makes a total of two in this town), comes to tell me that there is yet another girl passed out in my other parking lot, vomiting and covered in mud, with her eyes rolling to the back of her head.  DG #2.  I grab my coat, call 911 and head outside.  The 911 dispatcher gets confused (I mean, why not!  If there is going to be a person easily confused, 911 dispatcher in a high-crime area is the perfect place for her!) and tells me that the paramedics are already there.  While I am trying to explain to the 911 dispatcher that she has dispatched an ambulance to the OTHER side of my house, and that I’m still in need of one on THIS side of my house, I see yet another girl (nowhere near sober, and not seemingly associated with anyone previously mentioned, who we’ll call DG #3) come sprinting from the side, and throwing herself on top of the unconscious girl.  Seriously. 

So I get the dispatcher to understand, she’s giving me first aid information (even though I have no intention touching any part of any of these people), and the police auxiliary come up to ask me if I’m interested in setting up a safety presentation for my women.  Uh, well, in a shocking turn of events, “my women” aren’t any of the DGs!  But that’s a conversation for a different day.  While I’m talking to the police auxiliary about timing, SG #2 is trying to convince DG #3 to let the paramedics treat DG #2.  Turns out that DG #3 just wants to let DG #2 that she was this drunk last night and it’s nbd (no big deal, in text terms). 

DG #2 has no identification on her, and remembers none of her identification, like her name.  The police are confused.  There are 3 police officers in my driveway and between the two of them, there is nothing on their pads except for my name.  I appear to be the only person that can remember that information about themselves.  While the paradmedics are working on DG #2, I turn to the officers and say “uh, can I help you with writing some information?”  To which  they reply, “we’re confused.”  Well, ok, we can start there, but we’re going to have to get past that soon because my dog is reacting violently inside my house.  There are far too many men (for one dog) and far, far too much going on outside of the routine (for the other dog).  Plus, I’m getting wet, and disheartened by the fact that your job is to keep me safe.

While the remainder of this incident is a fascinating blend of incompetence and craziness, the blog entry will end there.  For the sake of a lingering thought, however, let’s consider: these women (all the DGs) are our future.  The police officers?  They keep us safe.  Sweet dreams!

If you love your child, don’t bring them here.

Consider this: it’s move-in weekend at the zoo…or sorority house…same thing.  In a turn of events that I refuse to believe is coincidental, there is also an earthquake…followed by a hurricane.  In my bed, planning for the next day, I think to myself: huh, maybe move-in will be delayed a couple of days till it all passes.  No.  Such.  Luck. 

In the land of parents who are obviously traumatized by their own children, I have 60 plus demands (using that word on purpose, because there is no asking) to move in early so the parents can get home—without their children—before the impending natural disaster.  Some of you in blog land may say to yourself that, obviously, the sorority house is out of the way of the hurricane and earthquake zone.  Obviously, Mother Dearest is trying to drop her crotch fruit off at the safest place she knows, risking her own life to do so before the danger comes.  Nope.  We’re right in the path of both disasters.  Right. Smack. In. The.  Middle. 

I’m standing outside my bedroom window on Saturday morning of move-in morning, letting the dogs go potty in the backyard—no bra, no shoes, no glasses, and pre-teeth brushing.  I am ambushed from the side by a mom who says, “We NEED to get in the house.  We NEED to drop her off so we can get back to Philadelphia.”  Um, ok.  Just let me put on a bra and I’ll be right over to help your dearest move her assortment of “things that are supposed to pass for clothes but don’t” into the house.  As I turn around, I think to myself: if you’re so scared of this storm, why are you dropping your child off in the storm’s dangerous path and fleeing yourself?  Ohhhh, now I get it!  You’ve raised a monster!  May through mid-August is all you can take.  So you drop her off with me, risking the likelihood of no food, water, and electricity for days.  Yeah, this is gonna be a super fun year.

First, you hate shoes….

I was convinced over dinner a couple of nights ago to begin this blog.  A couple of friends (the real kind) insisted that the world would be interested in my observations and the things I have to say.  I remain doubtful, but I thought that it couldn’t be worse than working at my last job so I went with it.  I asked one of my two very best friends (the kind that have no problem telling you the truth) what my online blog name should be.  I was explaining to her that it would be a blog about my observations, commentary about the things around me.  You know, I said, kind of like “The Fat Carrie Bradshaw.”  She responded.  “Okee dokee.  First, you hate shoes.”

I stopped for a moment, cocked my head and thought: what do your friends REALLY think of you?