In her little white hat.

June 21, 2007 | Stories

I have this friend, let’s call her Vivian, who did something really hilarious and mortifying a couple of months back. At the time, I thought, this is some funny shit! But poor Vivian was embarrassed, so I didn’t write about it. Well now time has passed, and she’s been flipping me a lot of shit lately, so I’ve decided it’s time to tell the tale.

Viv lives in Portland, has two kids, and is enjoying being newly single. She invited me to come to her work’s post-holiday party, and I eagerly agreed, as it was on a boat on the river and would feature cocktails and twinklyness.

A couple of weeks prior to this, Vivian had begun a naughty, secret relationship with one of her co-workers. She was VERY nervous about being at a social thing together for the first time, and also, I’m sure, was hoping he’d show well so that I’d like him, too.

Vivian decided to deal with these nerves as one does, in copious vodka crans. She proceeded to be flirty and giggly and not at all sloppy about it, but girl got DA-RUNK.

It was a great evening. Her company is really cool and progressive, so there were plenty of interesting people to talk to. Portland looked lovely in the cold, night air. The Boy did indeed show well.

When the boat docked, Vivian realized for the first time how drunk she might be. There was some sitting, then some composing, and a very quick goodbye and thank you to the boss.

Spirits were still high, though, as she handed me her keys, and we made our way to her car, giggling over her swoopiness. But then I got lost down there in that dark, dockyard area of town. There was some turning around, and maybe a sudden turn or two. By the time we made it to the highway, it was quiet in the car and I knew she wasn’t feeling well.

We were hurtling down a section of 205 with no where to pull over when she said she was going to be sick, and started searching around in the car for a bag, which of course was not there.

(Let me pause to say he-ey. Who hasn’t been there? The passenger seat puke. In the purse? The lap? Not the floor of YOUR OWN CAR. Certainly not. )

Poor, poor Vivian. She just wanted to go to her fancy work party and dance and have fun and show her fun friend from Tacoma a good time.

She puked. At 70 miles an hour. In her cute. Little. White. Hat.

 (This is not the actual hat. It was whiter and fluffier, and the pom pom was much jauntier.)

Poor Vivian was VERY embarrassed. I felt terrible for her. I knew she must be mortified, but that there was no way I could possibly communicate to her that REALLY. She did NOT have to be embarrassed about puking in front of ME of all people. I have been known to puke.

It was quiet for a while and then she said, “I’m afraid you’re going to think I’m an alcoholic now.”

“No, Viv,” I said, “I won’t. Puking in your hat is a total amateur move.”

The Pumpkin Story

March 2, 2006 | Stories

My freshman year of college I lived in a dorm called Highland Hall. It looked exactly like a Motel 6 from the seventies, complete with the orange and yellow alternating panels below each gigantic window. It was a two-story, cement monstrosity with about 8 rooms on either side of each block, and a loud, reverberate-y courtyard between each of the three ’stacks’. I lived on the second floor in stack two. Highland actually kind of kicked ass though, because every two rooms had their own bathroom. Getting to share a bathroom with only three other people is a pretty rare thing in dorm life.

The two girls across the bathroom were Ruth and Elise. Ruth was a brilliant redheaded feminist from Seattle with more brains and sass than normally possible in an 18 year old. Her side of the room was decorated with goddess posters, beautiful photography, and a Darwin fish. Her roommate was Elise, a blond homecoming princess from Lynnwood (the burbs) who talked to her mom on the phone every night and listened to soft rock. Her side of the room was decorated with her homecoming sash, Winnie the Pooh, and that yellow Suzy’s Zoo duck. Amazingly enough, the two of them got along just fine, although they would never be best friends.

Sometime in October, Ruth got a huge pumpkin. She had it on her desk, pretty much in the middle of the room. Everyone enjoyed the pumpkin while seasonally appropriate, but Elise started to get a bit tired of it once December rolled around. She asked Ruth multiple times in as politely and non-confrontational way as possible to please get rid of the pumpkin.

One night during Finals week in Mid December, Elise asked again, nicely and politlely, if Ruth could please throw the pumpkin away because it was starting to smell. I was sitting at Ruth’s desk at the time and sniffed for myself that yes, the pumpkin was starting to smell and was also fun to poke, as it was becoming very soft and mushy.

It was a Wednesday night and Ruth and I were trying to study together in her room. All our friends were done with their finals, as was everyone else in the dorm apparently, because the 23 hour quiet hours were not being observed. We just tolerated the noise, though, until around midnight when we couldn’t take it anymore and decided to ask the people down in the reverberate-y courtyard if they could PLEASE be quiet. This was back in the early nineties at a state school and believe it or not, smoking was allowed in the dorms. We lived in Stack 2, Stack 1 was the smoking stack. These silly college students were of course not enjoying smoking indoors while they could, they smoked outside, in the reverberate-y courtyard. This was not Ruth’s first run-in with, as she called them, ‘the Smoking Bitches’.

This first request was met with some grumbling, but they did indeed go back inside. It was around this time that I decided to go to bed. Ruth, the overacheiver, stayed up and kept studying.

About an hour later, as smokers do, the Smoking Bitches reconvened in the reverberate-y courtyard for another loud, chatty smoke. Ruth asked them again, maybe not so nicely this time, to please shut the fuck up. They ignored her of course.

Later, at about 3 am or so, Ruth was still up studying when the Smoking Bitches, probably more drunk and thus more loud, gathered in the courtyard, right below Ruth’s room. Ruth, sober, tired, and stressed out, lost the ‘please’ and told them to shut the fuck up or she was calling campus security. All drunks love a common enemy, however, and they were soon engaged in a most undignified shouting match. Ruth could take no more. She marched back into her room, past an innocently sleeping Elise, picked up the pumpkin, and hurled it over the railing at the offending Smoking Bitches. It hit one of them in the shoulder, covering her in rotten pumpkin goo, before crashing to the cement, exploding pumpkin guts in a twenty foot radius, covering the Smoking Bitches entirely.

Ruth enjoyed this scene for all of 5 seconds before she realized she was about to get her ass kicked. She ran back in her room, past the innocently sleeping Elise, through the bathroom, through my room, out the other side of the stack, and down a few doors to her boyfriend’s room. Elise never mentioned anything about an angry pumpkin covered mob pounding on her door in the middle of the night, so we can only assume they didn’t know which room was Ruth’s and gave up. She did thank Ruth for finally getting rid of the pumpkin, though.

The next day, Ruth was again studying when there was a timid knock upon her door. It was Jason, the Residential Director. Jason was a hippie with long hair and bare feet, and he was majorly bummed about the pumpkin incident. Ruth would have to attend anger management classes, he was afraid, or risk acedemic probation for her assault.

Ruth attended just one of the five required classes. She had to sit in a circle with others convicted of assault on campus and talk about her anger. Amongst thugs and fighters she relayed the story of the the Smoking Bitches, the pumpkin, and her ANGER. Three years later, with graduation approaching, she lived in fear that she would be informed that she had to attend four more anger management classes before she could graduate, but somewhere, someone let it slide. Apparently, assault with a rotting pumkin is not a degree witholding offense.