Disclaimer: as much as I’d like to collect royalties, this series of stories is unfortunately not my own. However, since I am lucky enough to have friends who have quite possibly the funniest dating encounters on the history of the planet, I’ve decided to blog about them, on their behalves… so enjoy the first edition of Dating, Shmating and other Ridiculous Stories.
One of my dearest friends, you all know her by her discretion and debauchery (or a similar set of double D’s…) has a tendency to find herself in some of the most difficult yet simultaneously hilarious dating slash remotely sexual situations known to womankind. Not only is she gorgeous, tan (so tan in fact that I often fear the KKK will mistakenly lynch her since she has now relocated to the South), funny and an overall good time…she’s quite a magnet for the opposite sex. A mini bio of miss D…
I first became acquainted with the one and only during my semester abroad. We were both in Paris, and both had an affinity for Louis Vuitton and les pains chocolats. After spending 4 months getting kicked out of The Princess and The Frog, traveling through Europe, and sowing the seeds of a lifelong friendship, we had quiiiiite a spring of 2008. A few menage a trois over here, a few I DID WHAT LAST NIGHT’S?! over there…you get the picture. She’s quite a handful, Ms. D, yet is quite the hand to hold whenever necessary.
Fast forward to January of 2010 since most of the stuff I would include in this description would probably end our friendship permanently if relayed to the public, as well as epically piss off Madge and other imporant readers. A few months back, all of us Loyolans gathered for the annual alumni weekend, coincidentally the holiday known as Ms. D’s birthday. Since the last anniversary of her arrival into this world consisted of an impromptu trip to DC in which the driver (who ahem wishes to remain nameless) decided to run over a traffic cone and drag it halfway the wrong way down York Rd) and a night of total debauchery at our Favorite Pub – she literally danced on the bar wearing little to nothing below the belly button and knocked her head into a moving fan – the standard for this night was about as high as Corey Haim and Brittany Murphy’s first born child.
Not only does she decide to go out with just a phone, some cash and her drivers license, but she also decides to pregame with her very own bottle of Jack, easy to completely lacking on the Ginger. Long story short, its 2 am (aka the awkward hour in which bars in The City That Reads close), and she’s nowhere to be found. We look up. We look down. We look everywhere. Whoa, whoa, whoa, Ms. Lippy! …She’s nowhere to be found. So, we do what most concerned friends would do: eat pizza, go home or wherever/whomever our completely sober mindset makes us think is home, and pass out.
dun, dun DUNNNNN who walks in the door of the apartment at the asscrack of dawn the next morning, wearing a conspicuously unfamiliar sweater without shoes? Our very own Ms. D, with a smile a mile wide.
“And where did you sleep?” someone asked.
“On Anthony’s couch,” she answered.
Anthony. Anthony. Anthony. who the fuck is Anthony? “Anthony?”
“Yeah, first the cops picked me up from Powerplant, as I was wandering around and asked me where my friends were. Since I couldn’t find you guys and didn’t have my phone or my driver’s license, they brought me to jail, put me in a holding cell, and called it a night. They finally let me out and put me in a cab, and when I couldn’t remember N’s address, a nice man named Anthony let me sleep on his couch AND GUESS WHAT!! he walked me home this morning AND let me keep this nifty sweater!”
In unison: “OH MY GOD“
If this doesn’t paint the perfect picture of my best friend D, I don’t know what will. She’s crazy, she’ll sleep on anyone’s couch, and the key to her heart is a combination of Cheez-its and Tate’s Chocolate Chip Cookies. More to come on Ms. D soon (that’s what she said?). Much love doodle bug!
Tune in next Wednesday for The Next Episode…
D is so fabulous that she lost her license that fateful night (license? her? why? she’s so famous, she needs no identification), prompting another spontaneous road trip – this time to the beautiful York, PA DMV.
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