For Anonymous, Thanks
I got a call from an old friend the other day. Well, not really an old friend, but one I've known more than a couple years. And there's so few these days that go way back.
She was in O-town over Thanksgiving, stopped by a bar. (I did this last year, Xmas. Left the family to go to some scuzzy, small town place to watch my Canadian-turned friend vomit in the bathroom. I still wonder why people choose to celebrate holidays in bars. Ask me again when I'm sixty, alone, with too many cats.) She called to confess. She made out with this guy who graduated with us. The guy who had a kid with the pretty one who could have been a pop star if she hadn't gotten knocked up. He was a teenage dad. She's a teenage mom, twice. I told her to be careful, they're both obviously furtile.
She told me they went back to Jon's house, this other guy I sort of knew by association in high school. These were the guys who would technically be a part of my high school clan, but were cooler than me. Most people were. They were in a band, played at First Ave., smoked pot on the weekends, and the weeknights, had beer suppliers. They were friends with my boyfriend, the one I had just out of high school, the one who wouldn't date me in high school, the guy who broke my underdeveloped teenage heart. Twice.
She told me he was there too. His brother was there. All these people I haven't seen in years were all there, at his parents' home, reliving old days. Her story made me a little nostaligic. I used to be skinnier back then. I found a picture the other day. Me, Randi, and the H.S. boyfriend standing outdoors. I was wearing pants that were too big for me. Pants that would be snug these days. And a tank top. I could wear tank tops in those days without worrying about the excessive amount of underarm, a trait I inherited from my mother's mother. From my father's mother I got my temper, my stubbornness. It must have been a hot day. I wore more oversized Nine Inch Nails t-shirts than I did tank tops in those days.
I miss being able to go into any restaurant in town and coming out with armfuls of free food. Dave got me choco tacos as Taco John's. At DQ Cory would score me a Blizzard. There was always someone at Perkins to hook me up with extra mac and cheese or breadsticks.
I miss walking to David's house at lunch. I'd pack a can of tuna. He'd insist I pour the juice into a glass, he'd drink it. Or, if he skipped that day, I'd sit in Marshall's room and play Snood, watch Jenny Jones. Or see who was outside, join a game of seipa. I was always pretty good "for a girl." Josie was the first to get a car. To save me from riding the bus in the morning. We'd stop at Kwik Trip and pick up 32 ounce cappucinos before class. We'd listen to Sarah, Jim's Big Ego, and Tank Girl soundtracks. Everyone would stay at her house on the weekends. We'd drink too much coffee, make music videos of old Tori Amos songs, kiss boys while playing hide and seek.
She was in O-town over Thanksgiving, stopped by a bar. (I did this last year, Xmas. Left the family to go to some scuzzy, small town place to watch my Canadian-turned friend vomit in the bathroom. I still wonder why people choose to celebrate holidays in bars. Ask me again when I'm sixty, alone, with too many cats.) She called to confess. She made out with this guy who graduated with us. The guy who had a kid with the pretty one who could have been a pop star if she hadn't gotten knocked up. He was a teenage dad. She's a teenage mom, twice. I told her to be careful, they're both obviously furtile.
She told me they went back to Jon's house, this other guy I sort of knew by association in high school. These were the guys who would technically be a part of my high school clan, but were cooler than me. Most people were. They were in a band, played at First Ave., smoked pot on the weekends, and the weeknights, had beer suppliers. They were friends with my boyfriend, the one I had just out of high school, the one who wouldn't date me in high school, the guy who broke my underdeveloped teenage heart. Twice.
She told me he was there too. His brother was there. All these people I haven't seen in years were all there, at his parents' home, reliving old days. Her story made me a little nostaligic. I used to be skinnier back then. I found a picture the other day. Me, Randi, and the H.S. boyfriend standing outdoors. I was wearing pants that were too big for me. Pants that would be snug these days. And a tank top. I could wear tank tops in those days without worrying about the excessive amount of underarm, a trait I inherited from my mother's mother. From my father's mother I got my temper, my stubbornness. It must have been a hot day. I wore more oversized Nine Inch Nails t-shirts than I did tank tops in those days.
I miss being able to go into any restaurant in town and coming out with armfuls of free food. Dave got me choco tacos as Taco John's. At DQ Cory would score me a Blizzard. There was always someone at Perkins to hook me up with extra mac and cheese or breadsticks.
I miss walking to David's house at lunch. I'd pack a can of tuna. He'd insist I pour the juice into a glass, he'd drink it. Or, if he skipped that day, I'd sit in Marshall's room and play Snood, watch Jenny Jones. Or see who was outside, join a game of seipa. I was always pretty good "for a girl." Josie was the first to get a car. To save me from riding the bus in the morning. We'd stop at Kwik Trip and pick up 32 ounce cappucinos before class. We'd listen to Sarah, Jim's Big Ego, and Tank Girl soundtracks. Everyone would stay at her house on the weekends. We'd drink too much coffee, make music videos of old Tori Amos songs, kiss boys while playing hide and seek.
posted by KC in Katoland at 10:45 PM
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