My favorite blonde wasn’t super happy about her portrayal in yesterday’s post, which we both agreed was a bit of a cheap shot. (She insists she knows what Medicaid is; all I really remember is her twirling her newly-highlighted locks and staring absentmindedly into space as Dave and Jon debated the finer points of government, money and health, but I’ll take her word for it.) And I really did feel pretty bad about it, and was prepared to sacrifice the joke in favor of some editing…until she mentioned that time she told our entire eighth grade class I was a lesbian in order to get back at me during the notorious DC field trip feud of ’99. Goodbye, guilt.
So, I’ve decided the best approach is probably just to clarify that I actually did have a lovely weekend with her, the girl I’ve known since we were 11, who made matzah pizza with me in Home Ec during Passover even though she’s as Catholic as they come; who drove my car home when I was tipsy off drinking three Natty Ices in a Fairfield U dorm room, even though I was the one with the driver’s license; who watched me get my first kiss (spin the bottle, obv) and my first hangover and my first diploma.
Saturday night, making our way through a bottle of white at my favorite neighborhood BYO – after I swore we only needed half a bottle, thank you very much – I felt happy and tipsy and so very lucky to have a friend who has grown with me over the years, who will still sit through Friday traffic from Connecticut in the name of a Philadelphia weekend away with the girl she once felt the need to trash talk against the backdrop of the Capital building.
And, for the record, I did once make out with a certain female, red-headed roommate of mine, so I guess you weren’t that off.