I was in DC Monday through Wednesday, spending my evenings gallivanting about with Todd, Agathug, Jamie, and Tim and enjoying the company of urinating homeless men while my friends worked during the day.
Monday night, we sipped margaritas and watched a middle-aged woman cheer on her favorite team as she grinded against a gargantuan man twenty-five years her senior. His flushed face glistened with sweat under the moonlight and matched his pastel, salmon shirt perfectly. A serious discussion ensued:
Agathug: That man looks like a fat hamster.
Todd: That man looks like my grandpa.
Agathug: Well, you just saw your grandpa grinding.
At Tuesday’s dinner, Jamie, Tim, Agatha, Todd, and I retreated back into elementary school cafeteria mode. We downed margaritas and Mexican beers on the roofdeck of a nice Mexican restaurant. As the waiter gathered our empty plates, Jamie scooped up some browning guacamole slop that had been spilled during the first course. “Well, who’s going to eat this?” she asked and sprinkled some tortilla chip crumbs from table onto it. After all, any gourmand would stress the importance of a meal’s presentation. “Val,” she continued, “I'll buy you your next drink if you eat this." Done.
Todd aptly pointed out, "Jamie, you spoon fed her and didn't even make an airplane noise. What's up with that?" Jamie--the same Jamie I fell in love with in 8th grade the first time I saw her do the latin jig--grabbed a giant spoon and loaded it up with white rice and jalapeno salsa. Todd sprinkled the concoction with Splenda, proclaiming that it wasn’t gross enough yet and shouted, "Airplane noises!"
Jamie immediately started making... lamb noises? Impersonating a dial-up modem connecting to internet? Speaking the language of the African bushman? Basically, any noise but an airplane. She looked at Tim and politely requested that he make the noises. As she swirled this spoon of death into my mouth, like a kamikaze pilot determined to meet his destination, Tim sat aside with on-point propellor noises spewing. Not even the artificial goodness of Splenda could simmer down the heat of those jalapenos, and I immediately began sweating. My eyes were so red I'm sure everyone thought I was celebrating 4/20 in style, and then... my nose started to run. I asked Todd if he had a tissue and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he handed me a tortilla leftover from his fajitas. I used it. Jamie started crying. "You... just... blew... your... nose... in... a... tortilla!"
Todd expressed concern and asked if I needed a glass of milk, Tim was rightfully horrified, and Agatha just stared at me and said...
"Val... you look like you've been through a lot."
Last night, on the bus ride back to Philly, Agatha and I recapped the DC adventures via text. I noted that I was upset there were no tortillas around, in case someone on the bus had an allergy attack. The convo continued as follows:
Agatha: Dang! Pita bread?
Me: Banana peel.
Agatha: Plastic grocery bag.
Me: The weave of the woman sitting in front of me.
Agatha: The inside of a sweaty turban.
Me: Ding ding ding. You're the winner.
The past few days were hard on my arteries and liver, and I came back to work with over 200 new emails and a Larry to deal with... but, I haven't stopped giggling all day. Thank you, my beautiful Motley Crew of friends. You rock my skull.
