And by throw-uppy, I’m talking about that awful dread we typically experience at the mere thought of attending these kinds of things, the kind that make us want to lose a ton of weight the instant we sniff the evite in the air (which I did) and immediately go out and get ourselves a spectacular, envy-worthy career (which I did not) and ultimately be the bigger person by forgiving any asswipes who disrespected us oh so many years ago (jury’s still out on that one.)
The reunion was two weeks ago with an informal meet-up on Friday night and the official event on Saturday night and with the exception of my shirt, this is pretty much what I look like in every photo.
What the hell is up with that?
I dragged my best friend Traci out with me to the bar on Friday night where we met up with my brother Tino and a good chunk of our graduating class from 1985 and aside from a few standouts, no one had feathered hair. Those of us who actually had hair. No one was wearing parachute pants either which was a little disappointing. We got there at 7:30 and stayed through last call at 1:00 a.m., because we were having a blast and it was the first time in over twenty years that I was out partying with humans who were (1) taller than me; (2) my age; and (3) not just biding time until they could beat the shit out of a piñata before their moms came.
My brother Tino bought me a lemon drop shot the size of Cuba soon after we arrived. Much to his shock and awe, I slammed it down just like the hottie shot pro I was twenty plus years ago. And just like the middle-aged mom of two I am now, I turned to Traci twenty seconds later and gasped for air and asked her if it was possible that someone was sitting on my chest and perhaps taking a blowtorch to my sternum and I just didn’t see him?
That one shot constituted the sum total of my alcohol binging that night because I was the designated driver and being the responsible, uptight, overly cautious, paranoid freak of nature I am, I wanted to be absolutely certain that every single drop of alcohol left my body before I drove home so I glanced at my watch every thirty-two seconds and clocked exactly how long it would be before I wouldn’t blow a 3.2 on a breathalyzer. I told Traci we couldn’t leave for at least five more hours. Then I chugged enough ice water to pee sparkling clear urine for a week, just to be safe.
Me <————— Party animal.
This is Scott, one of Tino’s best friends, compressing all my vertebrae. He’s a physical therapist and I suspect this is how he drums up business.
That’s Michelle on the far left and Laurie on the far right. At one point, Michelle dragged a rather large, awkward, cumbersome thing out of her purse, held it up to her face for a minute and then stuffed it back in her purse. And we were all “What are you doing?” and she was all “Nothing!” and we were all “What do you mean, nothing? What was that?” and she was all “It was nothing! Who needs another drink?” and we were all ME ME ME ME ME but not before we tackled her into a booth at which point her purse spilled its guts all over the table and there was the large, awkward, cumbersome thing just staring at us through one gigantic eye and we had no idea what it was. We crept up to it and poked it and whispered “What is it?” and “Is it alive?” and then someone said “Wait. I’ve seen this type of thing before. I think … oh my God, it is … it’s a film camera.” And then we all yelled HOLY SHIT and took turns touching it and then we asked Michelle how she snuck something like that out of the Smithsonian without getting arrested.
This is Brian. We’re sweaty. He looks like a hairy cherub, doesn’t he? Look at those rosy pudgy cheeks. It’s almost like a baby climbed up onto his face and mooned you, isn’t it?
This is Karin and her husband. If it weren’t for these two kind hearted people on Saturday night, I would probably still be sitting in the wrong parking lot, wondering how the hell to get into the right parking lot. Long story. Once we got into the right parking lot, they took pity on me and babysat me until my friend Chris arrived and the whole time, they kept telling me not to worry, it didn’t matter that all the women there, including Karin, were wearing pretty dresses and high heels, because my cropped jeans and gladiator sandals looked just fine. And by just fine, I assume they meant hideously ugly but were trying to be polite because that’s what you do when you’re babysitting someone who can’t navigate parking lots and doesn’t understand the meaning of business casual.
This is my friend Chris, who finally arrived in the right parking lot after I flagged her down on the road and explained the route which included a little bit of four wheeling because, hello? BEEN THERE, DONE THAT, GOT THE T-SHIRT which probably would have been more appropriate to wear with my cropped jeans and gladiator sandals than the blouse I was wearing but WHATEVER. By the way, Chris owns a brand new home and five sons whom she homeschools, is very active in her church, makes homemade applesauce and grape jelly, grows zucchinis, excels at time management and doesn’t swear. Just throwing that out there in hopes that it will hit a kindred spirit on the head and I won’t have to be the only lazy, potty-mouthed heathen running around this blog.
This is Chris’ chest. Not my girlfriend Chris, silly! My girl friend Chris was wearing a floral blue shirt. No, this is another Chris with whom I graduated although back in 1985 he wasn’t covered with tattoos as he is now. He was claiming to have ink all over his body and I asked him to drop trow and prove it but he refused. I even asked politely.
We all did! See? We’re all smiley and friendly. But he still declined. Next time I ask someone to strip, I’m going to hysterically throw dollar bills all over the place and scream a lot because I hear that’s very persuasive.
Remember that paragraph up there about slamming down my one shot on Friday night? Copy and paste it right here except change “one” to four and “Traci” to Chris. Oh, and change the last sentence where I peed sparkling clear urine from “one week” to “the rest of my life.” Awesome. Thank you.
Also, try to do this without noticing the baby beluga whale that swallowed my arm, okay? And then remind yourself that it’s not polite to stare. I mean, really. What’s the matter with you?
This is Kevin. You wouldn’t know it by his Opie-ish facade but we once mud wrestled together a long time ago. There was talk of stripping and Traci was involved. Long, weird story.
That’s Chris on the far left – tattoo Chris, not my girlfriend Chris. And that’s Scott strangling Tino, but not the same Scott who squeezed the stuffing out of me the night before. Forty-whatever years ago, the good people of Hilton didn’t put much effort into choosing unique or colorful names for their kin and thusly, there wasn’t an Xavier or Roan or Savannah to be had in our entire class. Instead, whenever you yelled HEY DAVE down the senior hallway, you ran a high risk of having twenty-nine voices yell back WHAT in unison.
By the way, this particular Scott wanted everyone to know that he could kick Tino’s ass on a moment’s notice. We all took note.
I also wanted it known that I could also kick Tino’s ass on a moment’s notice but no one paid attention to me.
And speaking of ass and no one paying attention to it … I would like it known that mine was not hit upon that entire weekend. Not once. Some of my girlfriends were approached, accosted or otherwise solicited like stink on poop and one even got to cross something off her bucket list. I didn’t bring my bucket list to the reunion because I couldn’t find a UHaul in time. So to sum up, I was not called upon to participate in anything immoral, unethical, untoward or anything starting with a vowel. I’m still deciding whether I should feel relieved or insulted.
Tino and I were just one of four sets of twins in our graduating class. We were the only pair that were brother and sister and good news! No one was drunk enough to ask if we were identical! Although if they had, that might have gone a long way in explaining why I didn’t get hit on.
And yes, I’m aware that I ended that sentence with a preposition. I know a preposition when I see one. As opposed to a proposition WHICH I WOULD HAVE ALSO RECOGNIZED IF I HAD SEEN ONE THAT NIGHT.
Not that I’m bitter.
I cannot believe it’s been that long since I dressed up as a blueberry nun and pointed my old nose downward out of habit lest it interfere with any low flying planes.