It all started one morning when I informed my room-mate, for about the billionth time, that his girlfriend was hot. And indeed, his girlfriend is pretty attractive. She's got long, pretty hair, and she seems like an absolute sweetheart. When I met her, my room-mate had JUST asked her if she'd go out with him. She was deliberating on the matter. An attractive woman AND a wise woman; I've never deliberated much. This has rarely worked out well. But while she was deliberating, my poor, dear room-mate wandered around the apartment agonizing. He very nearly became whiny. He paced for awhile. He drank most of my soda. The poor dude looked like he was trying to pass a kidney stone for most of the night.
But I didn't know him well enough to offer any words of comfort. So, for lack of anything better to say, I told him, "dude, she's hot."
I don't think that statement really helped out any on that evening. But at least I knew that if she said NO, I could say, "yeah, dude, she's hot, but I knew from the first that she was a fucking bitch..."
But she said yes, and nearly everything about the world was pleasant and warm and happy. The household was actually almost peaceful and drama-free, at least for a couple of hours.
Well, what the hell... MY room-mate got himself a girlfriend. I couldn't resist singing, repeatedly, to the point of complete annoyance, "D.'s got a girlfriend... D.'s got a girlfriend..." Well, that started to irritate even me, so instead, I took to saying, at random intervals: "dude... your girlfriend is HOT!"
On one particular morning, as D. was walking out the door to go to work, he told me he would see his girlfriend that day. "Awesome!" I said. And then: "Dude, she's hot."
Apparently, since this was the billionth time, at least, that I had spoken these words to him, something in D. finally snapped. There was an almost-audible popping noise. "I'm gonna tell Neil that he'd better keep you AWAY from her!" he said. "One of these days, I'm gonna find you humping MY GIRLFRIEND in the bathroom or something!"
[A small aside... The girlfriend in question is quite pretty, but I never really got that "wanna-hump-you-in-the-bathroom" feeling from her. There are very, very few individuals I have any desire to hump in the bathroom. Only one, in fact, and really, the bathroom isn't exactly an ideal place to hump anybody. Besides, the word "hump" is just freaking gross, no matter the meaning. In any case, D.'s girlfriend was never in any danger of getting humped by me in the bathroom.]
But I said: "Dude, you KNOW you just wish you could watch!"
D.'s face turned bright red -- approximately the color of a Strawberry-Lime Jones Soda. For just an instant, I could see him trying to imagine the exact level of hotness one would be witnessing were one to discover me humping his girlfriend in the bathroom. D. did not meet my eyes. He muttered something and dashed off to work.
Ever since, D.'s hot girlfriend has been community property among the females of this household. Why? Because it's a fantastic way to torment our dear friend and room-mate. A few nights ago, three of us took turns inventing a scene that could not possibly have taken place in the bathroom, for the simple reason that all those chickens would never have fit in such a small space... The girlfriend, of course, was not present at the time. And to the best of my knowledge, none of what we were describing has actually occurred. But it had all of us howling, to the point where I was sobbing. The best moment was when one girl emerged from the kitchen holding the spatula she was using to make cookies, and said, in the most dead-pan manner: "Yeah, and she likes the spatula."
Poor D. was laughing, but he still looked completely tormented. You'd think we were sticking pins into his flesh instead of describing the extent to which his girlfriend enjoyed her rendezvous with three other attractive females -- and some chickens and a spatula.
Alas, I forgot to mention the great creed I learned from the "Rocky Horror" crew when I was fourteen: "One can do anything with a rubber chicken and a plunger." That would have fit well with the rest of the discussion.
It is not actually possible to do just ANYTHING with a rubber chicken and a plunger.
But this is not a lesson that can be taught. It is a lesson you will simply have to learn on your own.
I got an email from my old friend Bennie yesterday. Bennie, who could shove an entire coffee mug into his mouth but who lacked some muscle in his arm and was physically unable to touch his own shoulder. Bennie, who STILL persists in calling me by my pseudonym from the very first zine I ever made, back in 1996. Bennie: the only human being to be able to understand every word of our soft-spoken, speech-handicapped pal Jason. Bennie, whom I fully expect to wear a black hooded sweatshirt to my wedding someday. Shit, I don't think I have ever seen that boy NOT wearing a black sweatshirt. To the best of my knowledge, he didn't own anything to wear on the upper half of his torso than a damned black hooded sweatshirt.
My own black sweatshirt is, of course, named Bennie.
I forgot to tell him that when I emailed him back. It has been a very, very long time since we have talked. I had to tell him the really important stuff, first. I had to tell him he's gonna be an uncle. Uncle Bennie, after all, has an excellent ring to it. I had to tell him about Neil and me, and cross my fingers hoping for his blessing. I had to give him some indication that I basically haven't changed a bit since the last time he saw me. I forgot all about mentioning the sweatshirt thing. There will be time for that though. That makes me smile.
It is a few minutes before noon as I type this, and I'm just about to get myself something to eat... Unfortunately, all I want to eat is a cup full of chocolate syrup. And most of that got used up on D.'s girlfriend...
Heh.
~Helena*