Hola amigos! Sorry for the lack of blogging, I’m not quite sure if its because I’ve been too busy living my life to write about it, or because I haven’t really done anything important enough to write about. Although I’m sure it can and has been said that nothing that I do ever really warrants writing about…..except Claude, but we’ll get to that later.
As a trade-off I give you music: I can’t stop listening to this thanks to Molly of the fabulous Smart Pretty and (less) Awkward, highly, highly suggested blog reading with great tips on the reg.
Anyway, being that it’s Wednesday, I figured why not awaken old tradition and write the second installment of dating, shmating and other ridiculous stories. The first chapter in this series was about my best friend D and my dating life is fairly uneventful with the exception of a little cradle robbing, so of course, we look elsewhere for entertainment and this week my friends, we have struck gold.
Any of you within a stone’s throw or a mouse click away from me yesterday have undoubtedly heard of Loyola’s latest scandal. Without shedding too much light on the no longer hush hush situation (thanks to yours truly), I bring you K. K is a student at the prestigious and very concerned with its reputation Loyola University Maryland, LUM if you will. (insert Chas tone: When I graduated…. [last May] it was still called College…) which also happens to be my alma mater, further driving this story really home.
Anyway, Loyola does a nice job of taking care of its graduating seniors, by throwing parties every 50 days until graduation, starting with 250…200…you can count. At the latest installment of this long-standing tradition, none other than the president of the senior class, who simultaneously also happens to be the editor-in-chief of the newspaper was caught doing the dirty in the third floor reading room of our student center.
NOW before you all give up and say whatever, I did that like freshman year, on the 50-yard line of the lacrosse field and then again in the bathroom of Swallows, each year til I graduated, then did it again on alumni weekend…twice, keep in mind that this young student is the POSTER CHILD for Loyola, and up until about two weeks ago, was delivering a keynote speech at GRADUATION. Can you say OOPS?!
Imagine explaining to your parents that, sadly, no, the day they have been looking forward since you were born, and the announcements they have been ordering exclaiming to proud relatives that in fact you had not only graduated, but had been so important enough to SPEAK in front of your entire graduating class and all of their families, is no longer happening. I’m pretty sure the term worst nightmare comes to my mind, how about you?
Now I am not sitting on my high horse judging at ALL…lies, I’m totally judging, and refuse to sit in the reading room ever again…but in all honesty, who can say they graduated from college with an entirely unscathed reputation (or kneecap?)
I can’t. On both accounts. But for right now, let’s focus on the latter.
Rewind to April 25, 2009. Other than Cara’s birthday, this annual holiday is known as the spring Craigsfest. Craigsfest is when Jevans, the creepy yet much respected except by his girlfriend and the entire female population of Loyola owner of our Favorite Pub, Craigs, turns the back parking lot into a zoo, complete with jousting and/or a mechanical bull, and trucks filled with kegs. Its wildly known as the drunkest day of the year, and being that until now you only had to be 18 to attend, the scene was amazing.
Last year, making any and all attempts to go out with a bang, instead of opting to use the front door of the bar to escape to Wendy’s for some sustenance, I decided to hop, skip and jump over the deck only to land directly on my left kneecap. Mind you, the deck is a mere 2.5 feet off the ground. Does the phrase “it seemed like a good at the time” pop into your head, too?
After a brief stint at Wendy’s, a few band-aids, leaving a trail of blood back to Craigs, and Callie exclaiming in fact that she could see my BONE, we jumped in Cameron’s car and were off to GBMC. While sitting in the ER cursing all things Callie for making me leave Craigs (in hindsight, love you mean it and sorry for being such a bitch that night, xoxo), she’s holding my then blackberry, RIP as I’m holding my kneecap, wrapped horrendously in a roll of toilet paper that I stielsted from Wendy’s.
She asks, innocently, “Stef, what do ‘D and R’ mean?” and I’m sitting there wondering if drug tests are a mandatory prerequisite for any and all hospital visits and whether or not I would pass one, when some woman sitting near us answers “do not resuscitate.” I. nearly. died. Fitting that I was in a hospital emergency room, but REALLY?! It went a little like this:
CALLIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!! over and over and over and over again until she calmed me down and realized that in fact she had been referring to the “D’s” and “R’s” next to each of my BBM conversations, indicating, respecitively delivered and read. Dear woman sitting next to us: If I ever see you again I will sue you for 99% heart failure.
Anyway, 6 stitches, a knee immobilizer (“I thought it was some sort of band aid!”), and an incredibly judgmental doctor later, we were back at Craigs raging like the best of them, with the newest addition to our wardrobe:
Claude
Ohhhh college, I miss thee.
