September 18th 2009

...With a Little Help From My Friends

The phrase “wait, wait, don’t tell this story” is becoming common in my life. Someone will start a story and then interrupt themselves to say “you can’t blog about this,” and I usually roll my eyes and say “fine.” Sometimes they are great stories and I cry a little on the inside that I can’t use them. So after three months of writing this blog, I want to officially say thank you to all my friends who let me blog about their lives, tell me stories about their friends, and who have not yet voted me off the friend island. The award for the greatest group of friends ever goes to:

Anxious Girl
Hipster Boy
Smart Chick
Miss Sarcasm
Smooth Talker
Blue-eyed Girl
History Boy
La Coquette
Big Talker
Sunshine Girl
Miss Manners
Peppermint Patty
Proper Gentleman
Miss Imagination Station
Class Act
The Diplomat

So friends, it’s time for me to once again sacrifice myself on the alter of shame and tell you one of my crazy stories. As with my prior karmic payment, this one was written by my friend Lydia.

I Don’t Do Suburbs

“Have I ever told you about the guy who asked me to go home with him and I laughed in his face?" Stefanie began.

"No," I replied, "but you officially have my attention."

It seems the girls were suffering a bout of cabin fever last winter. As Class Act likes to say, "When you live somewhere with a real winter, you reach a point where you don't care how cold or windy it is outside, you just have to leave the house." So they decided to get dolled up, have some drinks, then brave the cold for Rumors, Dupont's infamously unclassy meat market bar and dance establishment. Which should give you an inkling of the direction this story is heading.

Apparently, Smart Chick had given Stefanie a top of hers (a red going-out top, the kind that pushes one's boobs to the sky), but Stefanie had not yet summoned up the courage to wear the small article of clothing out in public. The girls attempted to remedy this, but she remained unconvinced. Finally Anxious Girl came up with a way to sidestep Stefanie’s stubbornness.

"You know what? Let's not worry about picking outfits yet. Let's just hang out and have a few drinks here, and then we'll change and head out."

Read: let's just get Stefanie drunk, and then she'll be more likely to don the aforementioned bold top. And lo and behold! It worked.

They arrived at Rumors with Stefanie already pretty tipsy and dolled up with her cleavage alive and kicking. They drank some more and danced a bit. Then Stefanie spied a Hot Guy and started dancing with him. Cut to them making out on the dance floor as the girls snickered behind them. After a while the Hot Guy asked her if she wanted to come home with him.

She didn't, but out of curiosity she asked, "Where do you live?"

"Arlington," was the response that came back.

Stefanie threw her head back and laughed. When he looked perplexed, she declared loudly, "I don't do suburbs."

That's my girl.

These are just the crazy stories Stefanie tells people.

And by the way, the infamous red shirt is no longer with us. When I moved this summer I decided it was time to let it go. Smart Chick, Miss Imagination Station, and I had a moment of silence and put it in the goodwill bag.