While I would never ask specifically to re-live college, I must admit that my sophomore year was a metric ton of fun. And, if I’m being brutally honest, a good portion of it was because your very own Aunt Becky had moved in down the hall.
This would have been apropos of nothing, except that her roommate, It Means Butterfly, was all “Ooh, sure you can smoke in here!” and then she was all “Just kidding, I hate you!” and so Becky would spend a lot of time smoking having deep and academic discussions in my dorm room while spending every waking moment stealing my beer.
As an aside, I wish I could tell you that she was exaggerating the roommate stories (she’s posted them here, here, and here), but she’s not. I would be the first one in line to call her out for such exaggerations, but not only is Becky not exaggerating, that bitch broke my bubble chair. TWICE.
It’s because of all that smoking deep and meaningful conversation that I have been asked to tell you about the time we managed to put our hands on some fake IDs and headed to the local bar had such deep and meaningful academic conversation that we stayed up all night learning.
OK, I’m not fooling anyone. I’ll drop the act.
So, as Becky mentioned (here), she met our friend J the first week or so of college and developed a small crush on him. J was an RA on another floor in our building, and through some miracle, he was the only RA with common sense and decided not to bust the freshman on his floor who was selling fake IDs. I think it had to do with the laws of supply and demand: this kid had a supply, and J had two friends who had a demand.
J hooked us up with two fake IDs. Actually, this is a misnomer: they were real, honest-to-goodness, State of Illinois IDs. It just so happened that the IDs in question were not our IDs.
All things considered, Becky’s ID wasn’t that bad. The woman in the picture resembled her in as much as her current ID resembles her (which is to say only sort of), but she was about the right height, about the right weight, and yes, the ID said that she was in her 30s (we were 19), but it wasn’t that egregious an error and really, we were only going to the local bar. If we’d had a sheet of paper that said “SRSLY, I’Z B 21!” they probably would have let us in.
My ID, on the other hand, resembled me only in the sense that the woman in the picture – a woman with an unpronounceable Greek name – had long dark hair. At the time, I also had long dark hair. The ID said that I was in my late 30s (I can pass for older), that I was 5’2″, and 120lbs. I am 5’10” in flats and I usually wear 3″ heels.
I would kill to be 120, but I haven’t seen 120 since I was in jr. high. The icing on this ID cake was that the woman in the ID had brown eyes, and my eyes are not brown. It was only because we were going to the local bar and the local liquor store that the IDs were worth anything at all.
Best of all, the IDs only cost us $20 and we didn’t have to go down to 26th and California to get them. For those of you not from Chicago: in 1999, you did not want to go down to 26th and California. Just trust me here.
And so, it was because of these totally glamorous and completely valid (ha!) IDs that Becky, J and I ended up at the local college bar every Wednesday night.
Yes, to have long, deep, and meaningful academic conversations. Certainly not to drink underage! Oh, no, not us.
In an effort to look more like our IDs, we would don our sluttiest bar outfits, our 3″ heels, and break out every stitch of makeup we owned between the two of us. Now, I never let J do my makeup, but Becky, who has issues saying ‘no’, gave in and allowed J to do her makeup.
After an hour or so of careful consideration and conjecture on which shade of eye shadow went best with Becky’s outfit, Becky would emerge from her dorm room looking, well, like a tranny who just finished Theatre Makeup School.
J, proud of himself, would ask for compliments and I would say things like “Wow! You don’t look like a hooker!” and we would walk to the local bar and get our drink on.
Our motives were clear: Becky wanted to get away from It Means Butterfly, who would never join us in any kind of adventure (she once interrupted a date I was on to see if I could fix her computer. True story.). J wanted to convince himself that he was straight by hanging out with two beautiful women. I was majoring in English Literature, which, if you don’t know, means that I am destined to develop a drinking problem.
Here’s the problem with my drinking problem: I can hold my liquor.
Here’s the problem with my drinking problem, coupled with being Italian: not only can I hold my liquor, I’m fucking good at pushing it on everyone else.
Here’s the problem with my drinking problem, plus being Italian, plus being out with Becky and J: Becky and J are lightweights.
Light. Weights. As in, “Here, sniff this! Oh, whoops, let me roll you home.”
After a round or two of drinks, when J would be asking me whether or not I had planned on attending my 8:00 Poli Sci class, I would start singing “C is for Cookie!” and convince both Becky and J to have another round with me. And not that pussy rum and coke shit, either, dude. Seriously, what is that crap? Bartender! We need dirty martinis!
The problem with my drinking problem is that I never learned and when 2:00am rolled around and I decided that there were only six hours between me and a Poli Sci class where the gross guy who sat behind me hit on me relentlessly (yay), I would round up Becky and J and tell them that it was time to stumble home.
Stumble, of course, was a relative term. I could still walk in my 3″ heels just fine. Becky and J, however, could usually no longer stand.
The three block walk back to our dorm was much like trying to herd cats. I would literally push Becky and J toward our dorm (sometimes through 2′ of snow, and yes, still in heels), and then run to get in front of them to stop them before they would walk out into a street. The two of them were ra-dick-you-lus, stumbling, tripping (but never puking), and singing “C is for Cookie!” with me at the top of their lungs.
It was obnoxious and cute in the bar when I did it. It was not so cute when the homeless guys drinking 40s took one look at us and saw that we had neon signs screaming “EASY TARGET” flashing over our heads.
(Seriously, the fact that we survived college in and of it self deserves a diploma. I digress.)
Yeah, you disagree? Well, due to the magic of You Tube, I can give you a glimpse into exactly how obnoxious we were:
Yup, that was us. Drunk, decked out for the bar, and singing Sesame Street.
Oh, yeah, why “C is for Cookie!”, you ask? Because that’s what I managed to squeak out in PoliSci.