TGIfuckingF.
Like you don't even know it.
I've been reading Dlove lately and today's entry really hit the nail on the head - I had been thinking the same thing. I work with a lot of high-fashion models. Lately, I've been working with a major one. Let me tell you something, when you are that extraordinarily pretty, you don't have to be nice. But this one I've been working with is so nice, so genuine, that it reminds me what a pleasure some people can be. She's like a friend.
Not to mention that when you work with models and celebrities, your sense of self confidence can plumet. I like it, because it's a great reality check. If you can get over the fact that you'll never be that pretty or have that body or those eyes, you're golden.
So where am I. Looking forward to this weekend, that's where I am! I can't wait! JammyJam is coming up and we are going to rage.
*~*
I was thinking of stuff to write last night, and I can only remember one story, which I am afraid may scare everyone away.
Where should I start?
Here's one. In high school, I always hung out with the older kids. So by the time I was a senior, I only had like 1 close friend in high school.
And Good Lord, she was wild. Actually, she was the beauty and I was the wild one. To begin with, she is more beautiful than anyone you have probably ever seen. She is illuminating. If I had to relate her to a celebrity, I would tell you she looks like a young Liz Taylor.
She and I would make the rounds at the colleges in the area. Moravian, Lehigh, Muhlenberg - you name it. (Now you know where I come from...ooops) We would crash the parties, some of which we were invited. I had this job, at a frozen yogurt store, and I worked with 2 girls in college. We became very close.
My parents were away all the time, weeks in Europe and long weekends in the Napa Valley. After the initial party stage, Freshman Year, by senior year we learned it was more fun to not invite anyone over - but go out and stay out all night. This was the only time I didn't have a curfew.
Anyway, while my parents were away, the college chicks would come over and do their laundry, and we'd sit around and smoke pot. In return, they put my friend and I on the list at all of the frat parties. Because two wide-eyed 16 or 17-year olds need to be at Frat parties. ::SNORT::
Needless to say, I grew up pretty fast. I think I blew my load before college - this may explain why by the time I went to college I wanted no part of Greek Life. I was hazed to get into the "in-group" both my Freshman year and Sophmore year of high school. Each time, to be admitted to a different select group of senior girls. None of whom I've spoken with in over 5 years.
Anyway, I remember one time, the girls came over, and we drank some beers and got high that Friday night, before we headed to the frat party.
The next day, hungover, I gathered all of the beer cans and placed them in a paper grocery bag. It was overflowing. The top of the bag had the few beers we had shotgunned (wooooohooooo, welcome to high school!)and 1 can that we had made into a bowl. On top of that was an 1/8 oz. of pot in a baggy. Before getting rid of all of this, I got a call from a friend to pick her up.
Knowing my parents were away for a week and not expecting anyone else, I ran out to pick up my friend. We arrived home about 30 min. later.
On top of the empties bag and specifically on top of the pot, was a note, from my uncle. I picked it up. This is what it said:
Partygirl,
I just stopped by on my way to the Antiques Show in town. It looks like your parents are out of town.
Hope you're having a good weekend.
Love,
Uncle P.
My hand shook as I read this note. Partially from my hangover, the rest out of fright. A phone call was immediately placed to my brother, who was at college, for consultation:
ME: Do you think he saw the pot?
MY BROTHER, laughing his ass off: Wasn't the note laid on top of it?
"Yes."
"Then he saw it."
"But maybe he thought it was oregano or something?"
"Maybe. But I doubt it."
"Shit. Do you think he's going to tell Mom and Dad??"
"Maybe...maybe not."
"Fuck! What should I do?!?"
"There's nothing you can do. Calm down."
There really was nothing left to do but starting drinking again.
So days go by, and I never hear from my uncle. My parents return, but don't say a word.
The holidays come and go, and my uncle doesn't even blink strangely at me.
10 years have passed and we have NEVER spoken about this event.
But, every so often, when I catch his laughing eyes across the elaborate, formal dining room table at Christmas, I see a glint in there, conveying to me, "I got your number kid." And it makes me laugh like there's no tomorrow.
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