Hello friends.
As you know by now, I lost my best friend and mom to cancer last year. The last few months leading up to the one year mark have been very emotional for me. At this time last year, one of the things that helped me to get through this difficult time were the cards and good wishes that were sent my way.
This is where I ask a favor of you. A little boy, Evan Hoffman, I had the pleasure of meeting three years ago was diagnosed this last June with Rhabdomyosarcoma, a rare form of cancer of the soft tissue. He is currently battling this with 52 weeks of chemotherapy. As you might expect, he is unable to attend his 6th grade classes, go outside, or spend time with his friends and extended family.
Recently, Evan was given a map of the world and some push pins. For each card/message he receives he puts one pin on the map to represent the place from which the message came. The outpouring of responses have been phenomenal but it wouldn't hurt for him to get more. Please consider taking the time to write a note on the website for this wonderful little dude. He deserves all the support we can muster.
Thanks,
Xteener
Showing posts with label Friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Friends. Show all posts
06 November 2008
02 October 2007
School Buses, Betty Boop, Spinning Wheels, & a Coke
As I drive through my neighborhood in the morning all the little kiddies tra-la-la-la-la onto the big yellow school bus. The school bus that I inevitably get stuck behind as it stops at each…and…every…single…house…on the block. What ever happened to a good old-fashioned bus stop? You know, the kind at the end of the street that you walk to. Is this unheard of anymore?
The only year I ever had to take the bus was when I was in the first grade. We lived in Japan at the time so my sister S and I had to commute to an American school on the island. I remember stepping into the bus to find kids swinging like Kerri Strug from the parallel handlebars that spanned the center isle. Our poor, unfortunate school bus driver, who did not speak a lick of English, would get so angry when kids would pull the windows down past the safety line and stick their heads outside the bus. He would yell. We would laugh at the jibberish noises he made. We would eventually calm down long enough to draw butt cheeks on the fogged up windows before resuming our swing-half-turns on the high bar. Eventually the school rallied up some volunteer parents to sit on the bus with us during the morning and afternoon commutes. There weren’t, however, enough parents to ride with us every day. Poor school bus driver, he never knew from one day to the next if it was going to be a good day on the job or a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. (If you got that reference, you’ve earned yourself some pie!)
I got a little off track with that story… my point; I made some absolutely fabulous friends at that bus stop. We would compare what our mom’s made us for lunch. I automatically envied those who got to eat a hot lunch that day while I carried around my Barbie and the Rocker’s lunch box with matching thermos. (Although, I mist admit, my mom made some pretty kick ass cold lunches.) I often traded my oatmeal cream pie for a baggie of apple slices. Cream filling is just not my thing.
These kids that get picked up at the end of their driveways are missing out on an amazing bus stop experience.
My morning commute continues down a major thoroughfare with nothing of interest to speak of until I turn off onto a route that very few know about. I keep this knowledge to myself in order to keep traffic to a minimum. From this point it’s actually a very picturesque drive. I make my way through a very hoity-toity neighborhood that has their very own clubhouse, golf course, and park. During morning drive times, the fuzz will hang out behind large gates and shrubbery in order to catch you going anything over the allotted 25 miles per hour. I’ve got them outwitted though. I know all of their hiding spots. Red Betty (I named my car after Betty Boop) and I are too smart for the likes of them! Ha ha!
Before I make my way into downtown Springfield, the last of the scenery is a park. It’s just like any old park; trails, swing sets, and dog poop. However, this park has one thing that not many others can lay claim to. About once a month there is a group of women that meet in an open area of the park to spin thread on their (a little fanfare, please) spinning wheels! Real life, honest-to-goodness, Sleeping Beauty, 16th birthday, spinning wheels! Is this a common hobby? I never thought of this as something many people do on their own time let alone an entire group of people in the same community who share this bizarre interest. Where do you even go to purchase a spinning wheel? When and how does one become interested in spinning thread on a wheel? This discovery was so mind-blowing to me the first time I caught a glimpse of their unusual get-together. I stared them down in passing until I realized I had switched lanes and was driving down the wrong side of the street. Sometimes, as I am on my way back to work from lunch I will see the small collection of spinning artisans and think to myself, "I would rather be playing on a spinning wheel than going back to work." What would I spin on that wheel? I can do it, how hard could it be?
As I make my way into downtown traffic gets thicker, the red lights get longer, and the homeless people run amuck. Springfield has major issues with the homeless population. Twice I’ve had run-ins with those in need but so far I’m 0 for 2. The first time, I was running an errand for work. I had to walk about two blocks down the street to drop off some proofs and right outside my office building there was a man. He asked me for anything I could offer. I had nothing on me other than the manila envelope containing the samples. I didn’t think sample pieces of a brochure would be of any use to him so I had to tell him that I had nothing to give. He and I walked in opposite directions and I was wracked with guilt. He probably thought I just didn’t want to give him anything. He probably thinks I’m a bitchy, rich person who is not willing to part with a solitary dime.
This directly leads into my second run-in with a woman who was over-heated, parched, and needed a phone number. Because of my last experience, I was more than willing to help. Bridge Man and I were downtown taking in the sights when she came up to us. She began talking about her car that had just run out of gas. Her kids were with the car and she needed the number for a local women’s shelter because she had to get away from her abusive man. I told her that I would buy her a drink from a nearby ice cream shop where we could also ask to use their phone book. She then proceeded to tell me that she wasn’t comfortable going into that shop and that we should follow her to a bar that was just around the corner. We followed. Bridge Man expressed his concerns. He didn’t think following a stranger to an unknown place was a good idea. We went inside the bar with her. She decided instead of water she wanted a coke. We walked outside where we were suddenly surrounded by people. They all knew her name and she started talking to a few of them. One of them came up to Bridge Man and me and asked if we had any money to give him. This is where I began to feel uncomfortable. The woman then asked if I had any money to give her so she could put some gas in her car. Bridge Man intervened. He said that we had no money and that we were leaving. He grabbed my arm and we were outta there.
Once again, I was unable to help. I know that the situation wasn’t the best but what if her kids were really somewhere with her abandoned car? What if her man really was abusive to her and her kids? I did nothing to help. Strike two.
...
Well, I just reread this entire post. Made changes. Then almost deleted the entire thing. I basically just rambled on for days and days, made no point, came to no conclusion. But after all that work and my nagging bloggers block, I couldn't get myself to hit delete. So, here is my conclusion. I think bus stops should be reinvented. I would like to learn to use a spinning wheel. And I don’t have good people skills with the homeless. I’m done.
The only year I ever had to take the bus was when I was in the first grade. We lived in Japan at the time so my sister S and I had to commute to an American school on the island. I remember stepping into the bus to find kids swinging like Kerri Strug from the parallel handlebars that spanned the center isle. Our poor, unfortunate school bus driver, who did not speak a lick of English, would get so angry when kids would pull the windows down past the safety line and stick their heads outside the bus. He would yell. We would laugh at the jibberish noises he made. We would eventually calm down long enough to draw butt cheeks on the fogged up windows before resuming our swing-half-turns on the high bar. Eventually the school rallied up some volunteer parents to sit on the bus with us during the morning and afternoon commutes. There weren’t, however, enough parents to ride with us every day. Poor school bus driver, he never knew from one day to the next if it was going to be a good day on the job or a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. (If you got that reference, you’ve earned yourself some pie!)
I got a little off track with that story… my point; I made some absolutely fabulous friends at that bus stop. We would compare what our mom’s made us for lunch. I automatically envied those who got to eat a hot lunch that day while I carried around my Barbie and the Rocker’s lunch box with matching thermos. (Although, I mist admit, my mom made some pretty kick ass cold lunches.) I often traded my oatmeal cream pie for a baggie of apple slices. Cream filling is just not my thing.
These kids that get picked up at the end of their driveways are missing out on an amazing bus stop experience.
My morning commute continues down a major thoroughfare with nothing of interest to speak of until I turn off onto a route that very few know about. I keep this knowledge to myself in order to keep traffic to a minimum. From this point it’s actually a very picturesque drive. I make my way through a very hoity-toity neighborhood that has their very own clubhouse, golf course, and park. During morning drive times, the fuzz will hang out behind large gates and shrubbery in order to catch you going anything over the allotted 25 miles per hour. I’ve got them outwitted though. I know all of their hiding spots. Red Betty (I named my car after Betty Boop) and I are too smart for the likes of them! Ha ha!
Before I make my way into downtown Springfield, the last of the scenery is a park. It’s just like any old park; trails, swing sets, and dog poop. However, this park has one thing that not many others can lay claim to. About once a month there is a group of women that meet in an open area of the park to spin thread on their (a little fanfare, please) spinning wheels! Real life, honest-to-goodness, Sleeping Beauty, 16th birthday, spinning wheels! Is this a common hobby? I never thought of this as something many people do on their own time let alone an entire group of people in the same community who share this bizarre interest. Where do you even go to purchase a spinning wheel? When and how does one become interested in spinning thread on a wheel? This discovery was so mind-blowing to me the first time I caught a glimpse of their unusual get-together. I stared them down in passing until I realized I had switched lanes and was driving down the wrong side of the street. Sometimes, as I am on my way back to work from lunch I will see the small collection of spinning artisans and think to myself, "I would rather be playing on a spinning wheel than going back to work." What would I spin on that wheel? I can do it, how hard could it be?
As I make my way into downtown traffic gets thicker, the red lights get longer, and the homeless people run amuck. Springfield has major issues with the homeless population. Twice I’ve had run-ins with those in need but so far I’m 0 for 2. The first time, I was running an errand for work. I had to walk about two blocks down the street to drop off some proofs and right outside my office building there was a man. He asked me for anything I could offer. I had nothing on me other than the manila envelope containing the samples. I didn’t think sample pieces of a brochure would be of any use to him so I had to tell him that I had nothing to give. He and I walked in opposite directions and I was wracked with guilt. He probably thought I just didn’t want to give him anything. He probably thinks I’m a bitchy, rich person who is not willing to part with a solitary dime.
This directly leads into my second run-in with a woman who was over-heated, parched, and needed a phone number. Because of my last experience, I was more than willing to help. Bridge Man and I were downtown taking in the sights when she came up to us. She began talking about her car that had just run out of gas. Her kids were with the car and she needed the number for a local women’s shelter because she had to get away from her abusive man. I told her that I would buy her a drink from a nearby ice cream shop where we could also ask to use their phone book. She then proceeded to tell me that she wasn’t comfortable going into that shop and that we should follow her to a bar that was just around the corner. We followed. Bridge Man expressed his concerns. He didn’t think following a stranger to an unknown place was a good idea. We went inside the bar with her. She decided instead of water she wanted a coke. We walked outside where we were suddenly surrounded by people. They all knew her name and she started talking to a few of them. One of them came up to Bridge Man and me and asked if we had any money to give him. This is where I began to feel uncomfortable. The woman then asked if I had any money to give her so she could put some gas in her car. Bridge Man intervened. He said that we had no money and that we were leaving. He grabbed my arm and we were outta there.
Once again, I was unable to help. I know that the situation wasn’t the best but what if her kids were really somewhere with her abandoned car? What if her man really was abusive to her and her kids? I did nothing to help. Strike two.
...
Well, I just reread this entire post. Made changes. Then almost deleted the entire thing. I basically just rambled on for days and days, made no point, came to no conclusion. But after all that work and my nagging bloggers block, I couldn't get myself to hit delete. So, here is my conclusion. I think bus stops should be reinvented. I would like to learn to use a spinning wheel. And I don’t have good people skills with the homeless. I’m done.
31 August 2007
I Know You Are But What Am I?
I went out with J last night since we haven't done anything, just us chicas in a while. We ran into some welcome, familiar faces in addition to the usual unwelcome and unfamiliar faces. I don't understand why guys think that just because a girl is out in a bar she wants to be picked up. What's the thought process here? "Wow, that girl is hot. I bet if I go over there and lay my best line on her she'll want me baaaaad!"
I digress. Although, I complain, a laughable pick-up line from a slimy chump would have been better than what actually happened.
Random Dude: (To J) Wow, you have great hair.
J: Thanks. What’s your name?
(This is where they make their introductions to each other, but I'll spare you that dialogue.)
RD: I love that color.
J: (Pointing at me) She colored it for me.
RD: (To me) Oh, what’s your name?
(This is where we make our introductions as if I hadn’t been standing there the entire time.)
RD: (To J) You look really great tonight.
J: Thanks.
(He walks away for a while. Then he decides to come back after a long time of contemplating his next move with J.)
RD: Wow, that’s a great shirt you’re wearing.
J: Uh, thanks.
RD: (He looks her up and down) You really look great tonight.
(He emphasizes his point with two classy thumbs up and continues…)
RD: (He then looks me up and down) You look… (He see-saws his hand in a so-so fashion and continues) … ehh.
Me: (Shocked and upset, but never one to miss a beat, I look him up and down and say…) You look, um… (Without completing my sentence I give him two hugely emphasized thumbs down and walk away.)
I know, I know, I lowered myself to his level, but he totally deserved it. (Na-nana-nana-na!)
But what sucks the most is that what this stranger said actually had an effect on me. I did cry, twice, once in the filthy bathroom of the bar and the second time after I got home and told Bridge Man what happened. The end result: all of my plaguing insecurities are hanging on a neon light right above my head to remind me that maybe my ghetto fabulous booty isn’t so fabulous, maybe my ebony hair is too dark for my face, and maybe, just maybe, all of those insecurities that I pass off as just that, are not figments of my imagination but honest-to-goodness facts that I’ve chosen to ignore.
I digress. Although, I complain, a laughable pick-up line from a slimy chump would have been better than what actually happened.
Random Dude: (To J) Wow, you have great hair.
J: Thanks. What’s your name?
(This is where they make their introductions to each other, but I'll spare you that dialogue.)
RD: I love that color.
J: (Pointing at me) She colored it for me.
RD: (To me) Oh, what’s your name?
(This is where we make our introductions as if I hadn’t been standing there the entire time.)
RD: (To J) You look really great tonight.
J: Thanks.
(He walks away for a while. Then he decides to come back after a long time of contemplating his next move with J.)
RD: Wow, that’s a great shirt you’re wearing.
J: Uh, thanks.
RD: (He looks her up and down) You really look great tonight.
(He emphasizes his point with two classy thumbs up and continues…)
RD: (He then looks me up and down) You look… (He see-saws his hand in a so-so fashion and continues) … ehh.
Me: (Shocked and upset, but never one to miss a beat, I look him up and down and say…) You look, um… (Without completing my sentence I give him two hugely emphasized thumbs down and walk away.)
I know, I know, I lowered myself to his level, but he totally deserved it. (Na-nana-nana-na!)
But what sucks the most is that what this stranger said actually had an effect on me. I did cry, twice, once in the filthy bathroom of the bar and the second time after I got home and told Bridge Man what happened. The end result: all of my plaguing insecurities are hanging on a neon light right above my head to remind me that maybe my ghetto fabulous booty isn’t so fabulous, maybe my ebony hair is too dark for my face, and maybe, just maybe, all of those insecurities that I pass off as just that, are not figments of my imagination but honest-to-goodness facts that I’ve chosen to ignore.
27 August 2007
Sleeping Tiger
Everyone has his or her childish moments, right? At some point, we’ve all felt the undying urge to spread a juicy piece of gossip like wildfire. We’ve all thrown a tantrum or two when a jerk cuts us off in traffic – our response: the appropriate finger and several choice words. Moments like this truly exemplify the caveman in us all.
Teenagers, of course, embody the essence of angry, ape-like fury. When they get mad, the shit hits the fan, the kitchen cabinets, and the coat tree from down the hall. They (I guess) have an excuse – they’re teenagers. They are going through one of the most trying times of life.
What about adults? What’s our excuse?
Last weekend I went out to a bar with a couple of friends but before we could even make it inside, two full-grown men were dueling it out on the sidewalk. One in particular kept swiping his thumb under his nose, plucking at his shirt (dirt-off-your-shoulder style), and gruffly yelling, “What!? You wanna fight!?” All the while, two of his cronies were holding onto him with a grip that suggested to the other fighter, “If we let go, he’s gunna to go ape on your ass!”
As I witnessed this display, I pictured (and maybe this directly correlates to the amount of time I spend watching the Discovery Channel) a big monkey pounding his hairy fists on his equally hairy chest, picking his nose, and grunting while his two smaller monkey friends dance around him, screeching at the other monkey fighter to back off.
Who knows what the fight was even about - but what a pathetic display of machismo, yes?
My point?
Well, I’ve had some angry, ape-like moments myself and they tend to occur right around the same times of the day – early, early morning or mid R.E.M. My college roommates learned quickly not to disturb my slumber. For example:
G: (Whispering) Xteener? Xteener?
Me: (Abruptly) Huh?
G: Can I use your computer?
Me: (Even more abruptly) Yes.
G: (Almost apologetically) I need your password to log on.
Me: (Wordlessly, I get up, stomp my way down the hall to my computer, slam the password onto the keyboard, and stomp my way back to bed.)
I can’t even imagine what G was thinking. I later apologized, wrote down my password for future use, and explained my irrational morning anger. She was, fortunately, very forgiving.
More recently…
Bridge Man: (Oh-so-sweetly) Babe, it’s time to get up.
Me: (Nothing. I heard what he said but chose not to respond.)
Bridge Man: Xteener, babe, time to get up.
Me: (Not very nicely) I KNOW! I’m getting up, jeeze!
Oh, if only you could know how badly I felt about this one. Bridge Man is the most mild-mannered person you’ll ever meet. He rarely gets angry or yells, so yelling at him is like punching a puppy in the nose. Awful. Of course he didn’t get upset with me but he did say that he hates when he has to wake me up. Absolutely dreads it.
Fabulous. I’m a jerk.
Teenagers, of course, embody the essence of angry, ape-like fury. When they get mad, the shit hits the fan, the kitchen cabinets, and the coat tree from down the hall. They (I guess) have an excuse – they’re teenagers. They are going through one of the most trying times of life.
What about adults? What’s our excuse?
Last weekend I went out to a bar with a couple of friends but before we could even make it inside, two full-grown men were dueling it out on the sidewalk. One in particular kept swiping his thumb under his nose, plucking at his shirt (dirt-off-your-shoulder style), and gruffly yelling, “What!? You wanna fight!?” All the while, two of his cronies were holding onto him with a grip that suggested to the other fighter, “If we let go, he’s gunna to go ape on your ass!”
As I witnessed this display, I pictured (and maybe this directly correlates to the amount of time I spend watching the Discovery Channel) a big monkey pounding his hairy fists on his equally hairy chest, picking his nose, and grunting while his two smaller monkey friends dance around him, screeching at the other monkey fighter to back off.
Who knows what the fight was even about - but what a pathetic display of machismo, yes?
My point?
Well, I’ve had some angry, ape-like moments myself and they tend to occur right around the same times of the day – early, early morning or mid R.E.M. My college roommates learned quickly not to disturb my slumber. For example:
G: (Whispering) Xteener? Xteener?
Me: (Abruptly) Huh?
G: Can I use your computer?
Me: (Even more abruptly) Yes.
G: (Almost apologetically) I need your password to log on.
Me: (Wordlessly, I get up, stomp my way down the hall to my computer, slam the password onto the keyboard, and stomp my way back to bed.)
I can’t even imagine what G was thinking. I later apologized, wrote down my password for future use, and explained my irrational morning anger. She was, fortunately, very forgiving.
More recently…
Bridge Man: (Oh-so-sweetly) Babe, it’s time to get up.
Me: (Nothing. I heard what he said but chose not to respond.)
Bridge Man: Xteener, babe, time to get up.
Me: (Not very nicely) I KNOW! I’m getting up, jeeze!
Oh, if only you could know how badly I felt about this one. Bridge Man is the most mild-mannered person you’ll ever meet. He rarely gets angry or yells, so yelling at him is like punching a puppy in the nose. Awful. Of course he didn’t get upset with me but he did say that he hates when he has to wake me up. Absolutely dreads it.
Fabulous. I’m a jerk.
10 August 2007
The Green Eyed Monster
I am a member of two online social networks where thousands flock to get a daily dose of creeping on the people they don’t really know. Before I was hip to the crazies out there, my profiles were open for everyone and their brother to see. Almost daily I would get a message or a friend invite from someone named Tiffany or Bunny who proudly parade pictures of themselves in negligees for all to see. I eventually wised up to this and made every online profile I’ve created as private as private can be. Now the only people who can creep on me are those that I choose. It’s amazing the relationships that have rekindled from these networks. I can now have daily conversations with people that I haven’t seen or heard from in years.
Lately, it seems like I’ve been catching up with a lot of people from high school. It’s like an online class reunion. This person now lives in Colorado. That person moved to California right after college. So-and-so works for a huge conglomerate in NYC. And what’s-his-face is moving to Texas in a few months. After hearing their stories I can’t help but be jealous. How did they manage to remove themselves from central Illinois?
I had a conversation with one of my closest friends, J, recently:
J: I have to go to St. Louis soon to check out everything with the Navy.
Me: So you’re really going to do the Navy thing?
J: I don’t know. I want to keep my options open.
Me: What are your other options?
J: I want to move to Colorado.
Me: You suck. I don’t even have the option of leaving this hole.
J: Yea, it’s nice.
It’s not that I don’t like life in Corn Country. My nuclear family lives here, I enjoy changes in the seasons (to an extent), my man (Bridge Man) and his family live here, and… well, that’s about it. Those are the reasons I’m staying.
More specifically:
- Bridge Man doesn’t want to move too far away from his family.
- My mom is not in the best of health and I want to be near her for anything that she needs.
- My nephew is only 2 years old and I don’t want to miss these vital, growing-up years. He needs to know his Aunt Xteener.
Yet, there are so many other reasons for me to leave. I could get a different, better, and a more rewarding job anywhere my heart desires. I want to experience different things and people and cultures. I want to have these experiences under my belt before I finally decide to settle down. I even have a mental list of all the places I want to live.
Yes, my reasons are selfish. I understand this. But what’s a girl to do?
No, really… what should I do?
Lately, it seems like I’ve been catching up with a lot of people from high school. It’s like an online class reunion. This person now lives in Colorado. That person moved to California right after college. So-and-so works for a huge conglomerate in NYC. And what’s-his-face is moving to Texas in a few months. After hearing their stories I can’t help but be jealous. How did they manage to remove themselves from central Illinois?
I had a conversation with one of my closest friends, J, recently:
J: I have to go to St. Louis soon to check out everything with the Navy.
Me: So you’re really going to do the Navy thing?
J: I don’t know. I want to keep my options open.
Me: What are your other options?
J: I want to move to Colorado.
Me: You suck. I don’t even have the option of leaving this hole.
J: Yea, it’s nice.
It’s not that I don’t like life in Corn Country. My nuclear family lives here, I enjoy changes in the seasons (to an extent), my man (Bridge Man) and his family live here, and… well, that’s about it. Those are the reasons I’m staying.
More specifically:
- Bridge Man doesn’t want to move too far away from his family.
- My mom is not in the best of health and I want to be near her for anything that she needs.
- My nephew is only 2 years old and I don’t want to miss these vital, growing-up years. He needs to know his Aunt Xteener.
Yet, there are so many other reasons for me to leave. I could get a different, better, and a more rewarding job anywhere my heart desires. I want to experience different things and people and cultures. I want to have these experiences under my belt before I finally decide to settle down. I even have a mental list of all the places I want to live.
Yes, my reasons are selfish. I understand this. But what’s a girl to do?
No, really… what should I do?
18 July 2007
What Your Family Doesn't Know...
Last weekend I went to my old college roommate's wedding, G. She married a guy, S, that lived two doors down from us in the dorms. It was an especially emotional event for me because I had known them both before they decided to get hitched. During the ceremony the reverend made mention of the beginning of their relationship and how it all began. He didn't go into specifics but, if you would, turn your gaze to the SIU alumni sitting third pew from the front:
We (the SIU alumni) sat politely in our church garb with smirks on our faces remembering that fateful night. There were no long walks along Campus Lake. S did not whisper sweet nothings in G's ear. They did not stare deeply into each other’s eyes and realize - at that very moment - that they were forever meant to be together.
The night started, for S, with an innocent game of poker and some smuggled Sparks with his buddies in the dorms. After S emptied his wallet and downed a few beers he headed off to bed. The poker game continued without him into the wee hours of the morning.
For G, her dear friend (me) took her to a house party where we met up with a couple of friends. It was the traditional 'girls night out.' We drank Boones Farm from plastic martini glasses, sang karaoke to whatever song was on the radio, graduated from Boones to vodka shots (you know, the six dollar kind), and danced on the furniture into the night.
After we were done "shakin' our g-thangs" we headed back to the dorms to happily find the poker party still in session. After joining in the festivities for a while, G wandered off to what we assumed was her own room. A while later she returned and slurred, "Wherzze S?" (That translates to "Where's S?" for those of you who don't speak fluent drunk.) Not thinking anything about it, we pointed her in the direction of S's room. She entered, tried to close the door, and failed. As the poker party simmered down we started to wonder what G and S were up to for so long and why they didn't come join the fiesta. We pushed open the ajar door and (I'm sure you can see where this is going) once our eyes adjusted to the dark and we saw the moving lump under the cover, the poker party of 10 year-old college students broke into squeals and giggles and hurriedly slammed the door.
And that, children, is the story of how G and S began their relationship. And as I sat in that pew, I wondered (as I'm sure my SIU counterparts were also wondering) what S & G's parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, 2nd cousins, nieces, and nephews thought had brought the lovebirds together. Did they innocently imagine the two took a moonlight stroll through the quads to the gymnasium? Or was it a quiet, candle lit dinner in the dining hall? I highly doubt any of them knew that a few bottles of Boones Farm and a 6-pack of Sparks would bring us all together to watch as S and G entered into the sanctity of marriage.
An now, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the lovely new couple, Mr. and Mrs. S.
We (the SIU alumni) sat politely in our church garb with smirks on our faces remembering that fateful night. There were no long walks along Campus Lake. S did not whisper sweet nothings in G's ear. They did not stare deeply into each other’s eyes and realize - at that very moment - that they were forever meant to be together.
The night started, for S, with an innocent game of poker and some smuggled Sparks with his buddies in the dorms. After S emptied his wallet and downed a few beers he headed off to bed. The poker game continued without him into the wee hours of the morning.
For G, her dear friend (me) took her to a house party where we met up with a couple of friends. It was the traditional 'girls night out.' We drank Boones Farm from plastic martini glasses, sang karaoke to whatever song was on the radio, graduated from Boones to vodka shots (you know, the six dollar kind), and danced on the furniture into the night.
After we were done "shakin' our g-thangs" we headed back to the dorms to happily find the poker party still in session. After joining in the festivities for a while, G wandered off to what we assumed was her own room. A while later she returned and slurred, "Wherzze S?" (That translates to "Where's S?" for those of you who don't speak fluent drunk.) Not thinking anything about it, we pointed her in the direction of S's room. She entered, tried to close the door, and failed. As the poker party simmered down we started to wonder what G and S were up to for so long and why they didn't come join the fiesta. We pushed open the ajar door and (I'm sure you can see where this is going) once our eyes adjusted to the dark and we saw the moving lump under the cover, the poker party of 10 year-old college students broke into squeals and giggles and hurriedly slammed the door.
And that, children, is the story of how G and S began their relationship. And as I sat in that pew, I wondered (as I'm sure my SIU counterparts were also wondering) what S & G's parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, 2nd cousins, nieces, and nephews thought had brought the lovebirds together. Did they innocently imagine the two took a moonlight stroll through the quads to the gymnasium? Or was it a quiet, candle lit dinner in the dining hall? I highly doubt any of them knew that a few bottles of Boones Farm and a 6-pack of Sparks would bring us all together to watch as S and G entered into the sanctity of marriage.
An now, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the lovely new couple, Mr. and Mrs. S.
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