We grew close in college, sharing a certain goofiness not easily found in others. Attending school in the Midwest — Milwaukee no less — meant beer, beer, beer. (What can I say? Our dorm was within spitting distance of the Pabst Mansion.) And so much beer, beer, beer, engendered in us a kleptomaniac, chimichanga-eating, Def Leppard-acting weirdo streak I’m hard put to describe in words.
On nights out, Kath routinely stuck shot glasses, Tabasco sauces, table tents and salt shakers in her bra for the pure thrill of it. Many mornings after, I’d find her sprawled in her bed (we were college roommates, along with seven other girls) under nonsensical debris she’d swiped like handfuls of confetti and dog collars.
I’d never laughed so hard before or since than on those college weekends (I’m not going to delve into the ethics of it right now, nor contemplate my illicit university past), when Kath and I would rush home hand in hand at 2AM before our roommates so we could eat the rest of their birthday cake (it was always someone’s birthday) before they did. We were sorely reprimanded for that. And often. Also bitch slapped. But we always went back for more. I still remember those late nights of moist cakey goodness.
Also, somewhere out there is an epic (think Tommy) rendition of Def Leppard’s Love Bites that were it to get out now, would be grounds for divorce.
Anyway, I was privy to Kath’s losing her virginity (my bedroom was the next room over) with “Lenguini” and her staunch defense of me when some yahoo called me “Debbie Gibson gone bad.” Kath is Italian. It wasn’t pretty.
I’m sure Kath would be surprised to learn I’ve written about her here, because we haven’t talked in a few years. And last time we did, I’m quite sure I told her all about my sinus infection, so she hasn’t called back.
In any case, I miss laughing that hard. I don’t know if it was the time or the person, but I haven’t chortled like that since the night we imaginated a new Baskin Robbins’ sundae comprised of nutty poo crunch ice cream, or stopped men on the street “in the name of love,” or threw our underwear at the BoDeans.
Blame the beer.
Also, I’m pretty sure she still has my handful of confetti.