Another BJ Story…

Despite all the ridiculous stories B and I share, the fact is, we do not live close, and we see each other once a year if we are lucky. When we are together it is a solid parade of shenanigans and fun. There is no one else I can be myself with, not like this, and no one else who can bring out the weird side of me like B, and she is the only person who can embrace it as brilliantly as she does. To be honest, before I introduce her to people I give them one disclaimer, “She is the weirdest person I know, and also the best person I know! You will love her”.

 So, it is spring time in the Mile High City and B was booked to come to town for the wedding of one of our mutual friends, who, strangely enough, were getting married on a Monday.  Because who doesn’t get married on a Monday?!

B comes to town on a Friday and I go to collect her from the airport. I wanted the most hysterical and movie-perfect airport pick up that one could ever have — where I would be holding a sign and we would run to each other and embrace while other people stare at us, convinced that we were carpet munchers and not fans of men!

However this is what actually happened:

I took the wrong route to the airport, so was running late circling around the city rather than cutting through. I am flying down the highway and come up on someone’s ass, riding it until they get over, because welcome to the land of laws — slow cars go to the right!  As I pass this minivan, I was upset at their lack of need for speed and their clear feeling of entitlement to slow me down, so, I flip them the bird and glare at them.  That’s when I realize the person driving the car is a nun, in her habit. It’s official, I feel like a douche.  But I do not let it slow me down, as I wouldn’t get the romantic welcome with B unless I press on!

Ten miles from the airport I get a text saying, “Hello Colorado!” B is early. J is late. The story of my life. I was determined to get to her before she took the shuttle into the airport, however she beats me and says she is OK with curb side pickup, which is an unacceptable option for a best friend who just flew across the country, so I tell her it is not good enough for me! I park the car and literally run in as the tired and jet-lagged B says she will turn around and pretend she hasn’t already arrived, so she walks towards security wearing a hat, a duffle bag slung over her shoulder.  You can see the TSA agents’ confusion and concern mount with every inch closer this girl with a bulging duffle bag gets to going the wrong way through the gates.  I run around the corner before they decide to tackle her to the ground, and we share the most adorable embrace and erupt in laughter!

After a stop for dinner on the way back to my house, we decide that the next day we will go out with some of my friends and my current man friend. We wake up and enjoy the driving range, followed by a cheeseburger with a waiter named “Archie” at a diner down the road. We begin to call him every name in the book, in an adorable way, like Chief, Comrade and Haas. That was how this day began. Next we stopped at the liquor store to get adequately prepared for the next five days and then head to the grocery store because this mama doesn’t drink her Tito’s and soda without two limes! Through the self-checkout we go.  As I struggle to find the code for the limes, B types in the quantity as two and sets them on the scanner. I immediately say, “No! We have three!” She tells me it is too late and we move on. I spend the next two hours referring to us a thieves and she spends it telling me I am ridiculous.

Once we head downtown, my frustration grows as my new man says he cannot make it for meeting up with my coworker Warren and his friends.  B and I go anyway and enjoy everything from delicious apps to ciders and shots of whiskey.  Then we get ADD and find ourselves at the next bar, a beer garden filled with hipsters in tight jeans and man buns.  They all look disgusted when I begin to ask for a lighter so I can have a cigarette — a hobby I only pick up when drinking.

After the judgment from all the basic white girls with their miniskirts on (despite my light hair and fair skin, I am clearly different cause I wear dresses and am better than all of them because I am less judge-y) I go to ask this guy for a lighter and look at him as I say something I have never said before (not being a fan of facial hair), “I like your beard.” He replies, “I like your face.”  I think he was hoping this would go somewhere, however it only leads to my friend Warren and I desperately seeking out the fire pit so we can light our cigarettes.

Later, we find ourselves sitting inside with more apps, cider and whiskey, playing an always appropriate round of Cards Against Humanity. For being as inappropriate as I usually am, I am surprisingly terrible at this game, because people do not always get my humor, which is that of a 13 year-old-boy.  Unfortunately, it is not socially acceptable to play this game with 13-year-old boys so I am destined to never win!

After too many drinks and countless instances of calling the food runner “Comrade,” which was very close to his birth given name of Cameron, we ask our ditzy server for our check. We imagined she would give us the check fast even though she ignored us all night, however she doesn’t. I look at my group of fun-havers and say, “This c u next Tuesday has 2 minutes to bring the check, or I am out!” After a very long 30 seconds I say, “Screw this! I am out!” and b-line it for the back door.

Now this was an adventure I have never been on, one lovingly referred to as “dining and dashing,” and I figured my friends were better people than me and would have stayed, making me the asshole who didn’t leave any money. Clearly I need a better choice of friends, because they all take off as well. As I run down the street, I trip over the sidewalk, break my classy $10 Wal-Mart sandals, and I blame it on the bad karma I’ve just earned — it clearly was not due to the uneven sidewalk or my many alcoholic beverages.

The night manages to wind down after a while, but not before I try to push over trash cans that are bolted to the ground and talk to everyone we pass on the street. B and I took the trash can incident as a sign we should head back to my house…or the grocery store. We soon find ourselves at the checkout line with: the largest pack of bagel bites available, Eggo waffles, beef jerky, Jones Soda, Gatorade, two types of cookies, and one package of cheese danishes from the bakery.  On the way out, B laments that neither of us have the patience to locate pennies so that we can tandem ride the mechanical horse.  I point out that it would be highly inappropriate for us to do so, as one of us is not wearing panties, and that plastic saddle is a place for innocent children, not a naked beaver.  B sighs and says that I am quite right.

We wake up the next morning covered in crumbs and a pizza sauce stained comforter, and decide to go to brunch with Warren and my man friend Noah, because the only acceptable follow-up to the previous night is bottomless mimosas and roof top patio drinks, which is also the only way to properly begin a Sunday Funday!

B and I continued the weekend in the mountains where I was hungover by the time dinner hit that night and naturally ready for more tomfoolery the next few days, where we even paid for everything we ordered and bought at the stores!

With love, J!

P.S. The icing to the cake on this story is a couple months later, when I meet Noah’s mom. We are walking to brunch, as Noah says, “Ask J about the time she ran out on her tab at that restaurant.”  Hard to believe that that relationship ended shortly after, and while I can say it wasn’t because of that incident, let’s be honest…I am sure it did not help anything!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s