Rambling

When I put up a title of 'rambling' before I even write a word? You know it's going to be a good blog entry. Oof.

Luke and I hit the mall with an old college friend last night. Mine, not Luke's. One might even say my first college friend, as she was my roommate freshman year. We'll call her Machete. I still remember meeting her for the first time... she showed up later than everyone else on the floor as she was a sophomore and wasn't desperate to get to college like the rest of us (freshmen). So for a few days I was roommateless. And when Machete finally arrived, it was after a long, bad journey in the car and she was in the foulest of moods, dropped her stuff off, snarled a bit, and went off out to dinner.

Fortunately things got better from there and 11 years later we're still friends. She's the only person other than my husband that I've ever shared a ROOM with, and apart from some vacuum issues and some finals week arguments, it was good. Of course, Machete was coming off a year spent with a roommate who did things like give her boyfriend a BJ while Machete was in the hall on the phone. On the phone with a CORD (remember those?). So the cord was in the door and the door was not fully closed. How did Machete find out about the BJ? Call waiting. Niiice. So really, I had the advantage of Machete's low expectations.

My own crazy roommate didn't come until after college. This was the girl who wouldn't wear her glasses to the bar and thus expect me to lead her to the bathroom. Crazy once got angry with her friend who was visiting and left to go home, stranding me out with three of her friends at a bar and throwing a 'Bitch' at me as she left, because I stayed with them. Which seemed to be the right thing to do since they weren't from the city! When we arrived home and hour or two later, she had locked the deadbolt, to which we had no key. No pounding could wake her up, and I ended up calling my ex and asking if I and three random girls could sleep on his floor. He's a nice guy, so he agreed.

Or being on the northwest side of the city on St Patrick's Day, trying to find a cab home in a less than fabulous neighborhood in less than fabulous weather. In a situation like that, you're hoping for good logical thought, not 'I'm going to call my dad!' (a three hour drive away, totally useless) and finally a foot stomping, arm pumping 'We're going to die!'... Afterwards she told me how she can laugh about that night now, but that wasn't a comfort to me!!

Crazy had problems with men, she was desperate to have a boyfriend. We once walked into a bar and were confronted by a sweaty drunk man, whom she latched onto and fiercely whispered to me 'I saw him first!'. I was stunned, especially as I was remotely sober that evening, and was prepared to mock the sweaty drunkenness of him. She met another guy on the train platform and invited him to a party we were hosting, before which she warned me not to hit on him. While platform boy and her dated a few weeks, and dating consisted of sitting in his apartment or going out to Burger King, she stuck with it until he stopped calling. She also stuck with it when another guy insisted on calling her drunk, in the middle of the night, after he had been out. When she would talk to him for an hour or two. Did I mention this was a weeknight and we all had to work the next day?

When she began dating an old flame from college, she threw out the term 'My Boyfriend' so often that we began joking that that was, in fact, his name.

Crazy and I lost touch because I withdrew fast and hard when we separated living quarters. I withdrew while we lived together, too, opting to go to bed early rather than deal with her on a nightly basis.

I debated about writing this type of thing, because every part of me screams 'What if she finds this blog!', but I am risking nothing by posting these stories as we are no longer friends and she is not friends with anyone I know, either. And if she does read it, well, so be it.