Side Effects
Chapter 1: Panda Pirate
There is something about Panda bears I just can't resist. There is something about pirates I just can't resist. And when it happens to be a Panda dressed as a pirate? Watch the eff(1) out.
My favorite t-shirt website has one new tee every day, but you only have twenty-four hours to buy it. I don't remember to check the site every day, because, really? Who's that big of a tool(2) to t-shirts? Some might be surprised to learn: not this girl. So when I scrolled through their archive one day and discovered I'd missed a gorgeous Panda Pirate on a red tee, I nearly cried. The only consolation I had was that every three months, the site has a "grab bag." You get their tees at half the regular price, but you don't know what you've purchased until it arrives on your doorstep. I am not even going to pretend like I didn't buy fifteen t-shirts the next Grab Bag Day.
I impatiently waited three weeks for my tees to arrive, then used my teeth to rip into the sleek black bags the site ships in before I had even set my keys, phone or purse down. My chocolate Miniature Dachshund, Pirate Hooker Drama, ran around trying to trip me, barking in her painfully high-pitched voice, demanding I pay attention to her. Nope. Drama would have to wait.
I wasn't even bothering to look at the designs, I was going by color alone. Gray, black, brown, pale yellow, black…Where was the red damn it?! The shirts are shipped in packs of three, and the first three bags held no red.
The fourth bag I ripped apart held a red shirt, and I held my breath as I flapped it out, unfolding it to take a look at the design on the front.
SUCCESS! I got my Panda Pirate! I may have squealed and shrieked like a twelve year old girl, but only Drama knows for sure. And while Drama's "voice" may be as grating as Fran Dresher's,(3) she has not yet figured out how to speak, so she's not telling anyone. Nasty new-shirt smell be damned, I tore off the much less awesome t-shirt I was wearing so that I could put on the most glorious shirt ever created. I walked to my full-length mirror to admire it, tripping over Drama and nearly running into my dresser in the process. No matter, it was Friday, the sun was shining, and I had my Panda Pirate shirt. Nothing could ruin the magic of this day.
I had plans to spend the night eating pizza, drinking beer and playing Rock Band with one of my oldest friends, M. Leaving my dog to spend the night with "Grandma,"(4) I first went to my biff(5) Gray's house to show off my glorious new shirt.
Gray is a rather sheltered twenty-one year old that I met my first quarter of classes. I absolutely adore her, she reminds me of a younger me, and usually says what I'm thinking two seconds before I intend to. I just knew she'd love my new shirt as much as I did.
While at Gray's, my mother calls my cell phone, frantic that she's lost my brown demon-child. My mother has a slight tendency to overreact and blow things epically out of proportion, so I run through a checklist of places Drama could be, covering the phone and laughing as I explain the situation to Gray and her mother. Gray's mother (an uber-Christian who frowned at skulls and pirates and basically anything that hinted at fun) was not as impressed with my shirt as Gray and I were.
My mother's panic increases as she fails to find my child in her crate, asleep in any of the rooms in her house, or waiting patiently outside the front door. When Drama fails to come to my mother's whistle OR to the warning beep on her remote-activated shock collar, I start to get worried. Drama always comes to find me (or whoever is holding the remote) when she is beeped.
My mother cannot find Drama in the barn or when she circles the house, and I begin to freak out a bit myself. "Please excuse me," I say to my friend and her mother, as I grab my car keys and slip on my shoes. "I have to go find my child."
My mother and I get off the phone as I start the forty-five minute drive to her house, and she calls the neighbors to inquire if any of them have seen a small, poo-colored dog wandering their property. It's beginning to grow dark and I am terrified I will never see my little Drama again.
Memories of all the animals that have vanished in the twenty years my parents have lived there begin to flood my brain. Butchie, Nayco, Sam and Tigger were cats, and easy pickings for a coyote, I try to calm the panicked voice.
Oh? taunts the voice. And what about Jeffrey? What makes a healthy, five year old Golden Retriever disappear?
Ignoring the voice, I set my cruise control so I don't speed, and call M to excuse my lateness and possible no-show. She is completely understanding and tells me to take my time, that they're not going anywhere and I'm welcome to join them at any point over the weekend. M's friend Dean, who I haven't met before, is over and they've already started on the beer and Rock Band.
I am fifteen minutes from my mother's and about to enter the dead zone6 that encompasses a ten stretch mile of highway that happens to include my parents' house, when my mother calls me. "I found her! Drama's in the barn, running around and squeaking like a deranged little fool." I'm so relieved, I'm certain I would have fallen down were I not already sitting. "You know the far corner of the barn? I guess she smelled a mouse or something, she's trying to get at it. She's quite determined. I shocked her, but I can't get her to come out."
"Are you effing serious?!" I want to throttle my mother. "I told you a week ago that she's obsessed with that corner. You said you checked the barn!"
"Well…" My mother sputters at my unexpected anger.
"Ugh. Nevermind. I'll be there soon, I'll get her."
I finish the drive in a silent rage over the stress my mother has inflicted upon me for no reason. She's waiting on her front porch as I pull up, and I grab the flashlight from her hands none too gently.
We march to the barn in the fading light without speaking and I turn on the flashlight, waving the yellow circle of light back and forth in the far corner of the barn.
Drama immediately abandons the smell and chases the light right to my feet, where I grab her before the frustrating creature has time to think. "Was that so hard?" I ask my mother. "You know how crack-headed she is about laser pointers. A flashlight is the same. Dancing lights trump everything else in her world."
"Oh." My mother looks properly chastised and I immediately feel guilty for being frustrated with her.
"Next time, just get the laser pointer or a flash light. Any light."
"Ok."
Unable to stand the kicked puppy look on my mother's face another second, I tell Drama to "Get in the car, get in the car," and shut the door after she dutifully jumps in. Turning and finally looking at my mother I say, "I have to go." There is no way I'll be able to sleep without Drama tonight, M will have to deal.
My mother looks crushed, standing on her front porch in her flannel pjs, a matching robe thrown over it. Even the sight of her clashing, bright yellow Crocs peeking out from under her fuzzy trousers can't brighten up the Eeyore look on her face. "Ok. Let me know when you arrive." It is official, I am the worst child ever.
Cranking up my music on the drive back to civilization, I try to forget the night's excitement, to focus on the fun with friends to come. Then I remember that I've never met this Dean, and that he and M will already be well on their way to trashed.(7) There's nothing worse than being the only sober person trying to play catch-up to everyone else's buzz.(8)
I hit the four on my cell phone to speed-dial. "Hey Gray," I say before she can utter a salutation. "Want to come get trashed and eat pizza with two people you've never met?"
"Sure, why not?" I love this girl. She's always down for adventure. "Just let me ask my Mom." That is something I will never get used to. In the Military, no matter what the age, eighteen or forty, everyone was an adult, they didn't have to check in with someone before making decisions. This could also explain why almost every one of my married friends ended up divorced, but that's another story.
Gray is packed and waiting when I arrive at her house. We hit the liquor store on our way to M's and finally arrive two hours later than I had scheduled. We park on the street and I wrestle with the gate to the fenced-in yard, then we dodge dog poo on our way across the grass and let ourselves into the kitchen.
"Honeyyyyyyyy," I bellow, walking into the kitchen with two bottles of vodka cradled in my left arm and my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, "I'm hoooooome!"
"Klenya!" A small blonde with short, pixie-like hair appears in the living room doorway as if by magic, a beer in her hand. I set the vodka bottles on the counter just in time, as she jumps into me for a hug. I've known M for nearly ten years, and no matter if I've just seen her the day before or if it's been a year since we last met up, this is her standard greeting.
"Marky Mark!" I squeeze her in a bear hug and spin around once, as is my role in this greeting.
Gray stares on open-mouthed from the doorway. I understand Gray's shock and I can't say it's unwarranted. To say that I'm not super big on touching people would be an understatement. I would much rather a stranger think I'm rude or impolite and greet them by waving my hand once from left to right while saying "hello," than shake hands with them. And forget those freaks who greet people for the first time by hugging. I have ducked and run from them on more than one occasion. But this is M. M plays by her own set of rules and you adapt.
I take a step back from M and motion to Gray. "M, this is Gray. Gray, may I introduce my oldest, oddest friend, M."
M looks Gray up and down as she takes a long drink of her beer, taking in everything from the neat ponytail securing her brown hair to the overwhelmed, wide-eyed look on her face, to the crazy, colorful socks peeking out above her shoes. "Gray?" Gray nods silently and M studies her intently, then slightly shakes her head and frowns. "No. That doesn't suit you. I think I shall call you Blue."
Gray looks taken aback, "Blue?"
M nods seriously and it's settled. "Blue."
"C'mon, don't just stand there, Blue," I chide Gray. "We've got two hours of drinking to catch up on."
Gray lets out a nervous laugh and carefully sets down the crate where my beautiful (if admittedly high-maintenance) brown child resides. I drop my duffel and open the door to release the beast, then crack open two of M's Rainier beers and hand one to Gray. She takes it and wrinkles her nose at the smell. "I know, M has abominable taste in beer." M sticks out her tongue at us as she inspects the vodka. "But you simply cannot eat pizza with anything but a cold beer. It's un-American!" I swipe a decent sized slice of pepperoni pizza and take a big bite to emphasize my point. Gray looks unconvinced.
"Where are the roomies?" M asks, reading the label of one of the bottles. "And what the eff is 'potato vodka'?"
"I told La Femme; she said they might pop in after the General gets off work. And this," I set down the Rainier to save the bottle from M's hands, "Is a scientific experiment. I know that I like Belvedere, but I never would have known that if I had just blindly stuck to Grey Goose." I crack the seal and pull the plastic off. "So tonight we are trying something new, either to find a new favorite, or to reaffirm Belvedere's awesomeness. Shot glasses?"
M wrinkles her brow thoughtfully, then turns from the sink to look in the cupboards. Gray, standing beside her, is starting to look a little pale as she forces down the Rainier with her pizza.
"I'm not seeing shot glasses." M drags a chair from the dining room table to boost herself up for a closer look.
"What about NyQuil cups?" I finally manage to twist the lid off and take a sniff. I wince and cannot hold back a shudder. It smells like pure Rubbing Alcohol.
"Ooh! We've got plenty of those."
Gray at this time is almost looking green. "OMG Honey noooo! If the pee-beer(9) is making you sick, for heaven's sake, don't keep drinking it!" I take her can and toss it into the sink.
"Hey! Alcohol abuse!" M dives for the can and triumphantly rises with half the beer left.
"Oh whatever," I turn back to Gray and steer her to a dining room chair. "Sit. Have a little water, and don't take what I say so seriously. And especially don't take anything M tells you seriously. Unless you check with five people not in the same room as her at the time. Got it?" Gray nods obediently and takes a bite of her pizza as I turn back to the kitchen to get her some water.
M has located the liquid NyQuil measuring caps and has lined up three "shots" of our potato vodka.
"Oh Jeebus. Did you smell that stuff?" I gesture towards the shots as I grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it from the pitcher of filtered water in the fridge. "I'm going to need a second before we do those."
"You've got six seconds to stop being a pansy and get that shit done Miss Kay, before I drop-kick you in the ovary." M leans back slightly against the counter, freakishly strong arms crossed in front of her.
I spin around on my heel, fast enough to splash some water out of the glass and onto the floor and my right sock. "Or, I could stop being a pansy and get that shit done." I set the pitcher on the counter and pick up a tiny plastic cup. M raises hers to tap it against mine.
Gray appears out of nowhere to pick up the third cup and join in our toast, probably afraid for her future reproductive ability, and we all toss the shots back.
Then sputter and gasp at the burn. I immediately drink from the glass of water in my hand, anything to quench the horrible burning. It does not work. Gray grabs the water from me and drinks, hoping it will help.
M is pouring second shots, not spilling a drop as she calmly fills the three cups. "Here, this will stop the burn."
Completely ignoring the advice I had given not two minutes before, both Gray and I listen to M and blindly throw back a second shot. This burns even more than the first, and we can only glare at her, gasping for breath. She seems remarkably unscathed from these two shots of rubbing alcohol based liquid fire, and rapidly fills the three cups another time. "Again." We start to protest and she smacks her hand down on the counter. "Do it!" she barks. M may be a scrawny 5'2 Norwegian, but she can be intimidating when she wants to be. And she always wants to be.
We drink, and amazingly the burning begins to fade. I cough and look to Gray, whose eyes are watering, but we both smile and look at M, who of course, has a cocky, all-knowing grin on her face. "See? Lord, you two are such pansies!"
"This is only the second time I've ever drank," Gray quietly tries to defend herself from M's mock-serious verbal attacks.
"Yeah, yeah, and I'm just a pansy lightweight, I know," this is not the first time I've heard such comments from M. "This still doesn't mean you should listen to her on anything else," I tell Gray, grabbing my beer and steering her back to the dining room. "Where's Dean anyway?" I call back to M.
"Oh! I left him playing Rock Band. Make a hole!" She barrels past us and into the living room.
"Ooh yay!" I keep steering Gray on, as if M's rude passing had not even happened. "I love Rock Band! This is my shiz!"(10) I brag to Gray. "You have got to play!"
Gray has never played Rock Band before. She proceeds to school(11) me for the next thirty minutes.
Sometime during all of this the General and La Femme arrive. They decide they need a fresh, hot pizza, and while they wait for it to arrive, they attempt to play catch-up to everyone else's buzz. They wisely skip the potato vodka and crack open the Belvedere instead. By the time the second pizza delivery happens, we're all trashed. I found the payment on my online banking statement a few days later, so at least we know the delivery guy was paid, but none of us actually remember the payment or delivery occurring.
As the night wears on, we've all tripped over and run into poor Dean's walking cast more times than I can count. The General has done it the most, but she's so trashed she's convinced he's putting his cast in her way on purpose, and has started to demand satisfaction in the form of guitar duel.
M is sitting next to me on the couch, and after the General's fourth or fifth demand to duel, she announces it's time to put Rock Band away, as everyone is a bit too wobbly to play any more.
A movie is started and I've just reclined my seat on the awesome recliner loveseat when M sticks her finger up my nose. I sputter in protest, but before this horrible personal space (not to mention cleanliness) violation can sink in, she's gone. M has run off to the kitchen after Gray, who is doing some serious wall leaning as she walks.
"This is my second time drinking!" I hear Gray tell her proudly, as M slides under Gray's left arm to stabilize her.
"Really? I had no idea," M lies quite expertly. "Let's get some water in you, Blue."
When it's my turn to put on my P.J.s in the bathroom, the General comes in with me, carrying my Toy Story toolbox full of makeup and toiletries. Getting my buzz on makes my natural prudeyness(12) shield drop a bit, so I don't balk at sharing the room.
"Let me do your makeup?" pleads the General. She turns into such a girl when she drinks.
"Gen, we're getting ready for bed. It's time to take makeup off," I try to explain as I change into shorts.
"That's fine, you can wash it off, just let me put some eyeliner on you. I'll be really quick," she promises.
Sensing a losing battle and not wanting to draw it out, I sigh "Fine" and turn to face the General.
She jumps into action, sitting me on the closed toilet lid and whipping open the toolbox. She digs around for a couple of seconds, "Urban Decay! Yes yes." She turns back to me, my favorite eyeliner in hand. "Close your eyes."
The General goes about her business, not allowing me to open my eyes for what feels like an eternity. When at last she allows me to look in the mirror, I'm surprised to see that not only did she do a decent job, but she had also applied mascara. With my eyes closed. Odd, but ok.
She then uses some sort of voodoo magic to convince me to sit again, and is doing Lord only knows what as I feel her hands move all over my face. I receive a smack on the side of the head every time I try to open my eyes, so I wait impatiently for her to finish.
She lets me up to look again and I do a double-take. The General has made me look like the Panda Pirate on my shirt. My left eye is blacked out in a rectangle, and there's a "strap" running across my face. My nose has been painted black, and I see that I've also got a dandy little Captain Morgan 'stache to boot. I look for the eyeliner, astounded to see that there's anything left. I was certain the entire contents had been used on my face.
"Gen! What did you do?!" I shriek.
"Panda Pirate!" She collapses against the door in a fit of giggles.
"I know, it's badass, but my face? Really?!"
The General looks crestfallen.
I sigh. "Fine. I love it. Now can I wash it off?"
"Noooo!" The General lunges between me and the sink. "You have to go show everyone. You have to!"
"Fine." I take one last pitiful look in the mirror, shake my head and turn to the door. When she gets like this, it's easier to just go along with whatever she says.
I walk to the living room to find that Dean has gone upstairs to bed, M is back on the loveseat watching the television, and Gray and La Femme have disappeared to the kitchen. Again.
M takes one look at my face and falls over laughing. The General takes this as approval of her fine work and beams at M. "Panda Pirate! Full of win, right?"
La Femme floats in from the dining room, "Oh Gen…How marvelous." The raised eyebrow and hint of a smirk on her face assure me it is anything but.
Gray wanders in behind La Femme, "What's going on?" She looks at my face. "Whoa!"
The General again takes all of this as testament to her amazing skill with makeup, and after failing to lure M into the bathroom with promises of, "Let me just do your eyeliner," she somehow manages to convince Gray to go with her.
Half an hour later, the General half drags Gray out of the bathroom to show off her face. "Gray kept falling asleep sitting on the toilet, so it took forever, but look! Guy liner!(13) On a girl! Hot right?" Gray's eyes aren't even open, but to appease the General we all say it looks gorgeous.
The General pulls Gray to the couch and M is tucking her in, when Gray suddenly opens her eyes and grabs M's arm. "How do my eyes look? Are they beautiful?"
M is fighting to keep a straight face at the seriousness of Gray's question. "Yes, Blue, they're beautiful."
"Did you know that this is only the second time I've drank?"
"Really? I had no idea." M's lie has no time to sink in, Gray releases M and is asleep within seconds. M turns to me, "Shall we?" and I follow her to her room where we start turning down the bed.
M and I harass and poke each other as we lay in bed reliving the day. M has shut the door so Drama can't wander the house unsupervised. She's asleep under the blankets at my feet, and I poke her with my toe just to make sure she's still breathing. She shifts and starts snoring.
A slimy finger finds my right ear. "Willard!" squeals M.
"Oh no you effing didn't! You're dead!" I smack M, then try to return the "Wet Willie" she so graciously shared with me. Knowing that I'm no match for M's freakishly deceptive upper body strength (she has the thinnest arms, but they're so strong), I eventually take the lazy way out and lay on her, effectively ending her ability to pester me.
I wake up to the faint sound of Reveille,(14) and have to figure out where the eff I am. M is on her stomach, her arms pinned underneath her, and I am half laying on her. I roll over and see an unfamiliar white ceiling. I still can't figure out why I'm hearing a military bugle and start looking around for a cell phone it could be coming from. Mine is on silent, and M's, which on the table next to the bed, isn't making any noises. "M." I poke her. She continues snoring. "M. Wake up." I give her shoulder a shake.
Her "What?" is muffled, as she doesn't remove her face from the pillow.
"What is that sound?"
M rolls over. "Reveille."
"Obviously," I smack her. "But where is it coming from?"
"Oh," she sits up, and her brow furrows as she struggles to think. "I'm not sure."
"Does that not wake you up every morning?" I sit up and swing my legs off the bed, grabbing my head as the room gets spinny.
"I don't know, there's no one poking me to make me listen to it." She pushes Drama off the end of the bed with her foot. "So did your roomies text and say why they no-showed last night?"
I turn around. "What the eff are you talking about?" I stare at her like she's just announced her undying love for meth.(15) "Just how much of last night do you remember?"
M's face mirrors my expression. "I remember everything. You and Blue showed up with vodka and your devil dog, then Blue kicked your ass at Rock Band. You couldn't hang with the potato vodka and switched to Belvedere. You disappeared into the bathroom and came back a Panda Pirate, trying to challenge everyone to duels. Then you did Blue's makeup, and dragged her to bed. You were ridiculous." Drama struggles to make it back up on the bed. "Oh, and Willard!" M manages to stick her slimy digit into my ear yet again, and I don't even flinch.
"No…The girls showed up, ordered another pizza, and the General went makeup crazy. Not me." I walk out of the bedroom to find my roommates.
"Dude, you're trippin'. There were only the four of us here last night. You, me, Blue and Dean." M and Drama follow me to the living room. "No roomies. How much did you even have?"
I find no one but Gray on the main floor and begin to worry. Where could the girls have gone? There's no way La Femme would have let the General drive drunk, and she was far too smart to do so herself. I open the door hiding the stairs to the attic bedrooms. "I didn't have any more than you did, Fool. If you're messing with me, I'm going to bite you until I break the skin, that is a promise."
I run up the stairs loudly enough to wake Dean, who pokes his head out of the first bedroom. "Hey, what's going on? What time is it?"
"Hey. You remember my roommates, the General and La Femme, right? Did they sleep up here last night?"
Dean gives me the hung-over version of M's "Bitch, you're crazy" face, and speaks slowly and loudly. "No. You were running around calling yourself 'The General' last night and challenging everyone to Rock Band duels, but your roomies never showed."
I slowly walk back down the stairs to where M is waiting.
"Just Dean, right?" I nod. "I told you the roomies didn't show. Seriously, how much did you have? Are you still drunk?" She tries to look into my eyes and I fwap(16) her away with my hand, sitting down on the last step.
I try to make sense of what Dean and M have said, and my brain, my thoughts feel like they're in a fog. I know they've got to be wrong, I clearly remember the General and La Femme showing up last night. Obviously they're messing with me.
.
.
I'm sitting in a small windowless office in the back of the Women's Clinic. Dr. Moore stares at me silently with steely blue eyes as she takes all of this in, then she turns to her computer and her fingers fly across the keyboard. She pauses, turns back to me. "And this weekend was the first time something like this has happened? Where you remember your roommates being somewhere, but no one else does?" I nod. "I see." Her fingers resume their frenzied typing. Dr. Moore pauses again, "I'm going to need you to keep a journal or some type of record of your activities. Document every time you see or talk to your roommates, and every time someone else is present. Ok?"
"Ok." It seems a bit ridiculous to me. I know my roommates are real, but I'm not going to argue with someone with a PhD. "So do I have Disassociative Identity Disorder? Multiple Personality Disorder? Am I Schitzo? Just plain old-fashioned crazy?"
"You know we can't rush a diagnosis like this." Dr Moore is practiced in the art of doctoral double-speak, where they say something without ever saying it, so there's always deniability.
I press for an answer. "But that is what you're looking to find out?"
"The symptoms from your event do seem to suggest there is something psychological going on." Dr Moore stands and takes a step towards the door. "I do want to start you on those sleeping pills we discussed on your last visit, if you're still open to that. I think it would be premature to start you on anything else at this point. Remember to keep a journal, I'll discuss this with my supervisor and some of my colleagues. Be sure to make an appointment with the front desk for next week."
.
.
It's a sunny Monday afternoon, which means I'm probably in for a slow shift. The dinner crowd doesn't start trickling in until about five and I'm off at seven tonight.
I've already checked the inventory and am cleaning the blenders from lunch's frozen margaritas when I notice a couple at the end of the bar. I grab a pair of coasters and put on my work smile, "Welcome to Crapplebees, what can I… Hey, I said we're not going to hang out at my work, remember?"
"You know you love us. Get me a Blue Moon." The General certainly has no self-confidence problems, I'll give her that.
"We want to hear how the visit to the head-shrinker went," La Femme chimes in.
I don't know why I bother to lay down ground rules. It's not like I truly believe they're going to listen. I give in and grab a pint glass. The Roomies are the only customers in the bar area, so it's not like they're going to distract me from work.
"The Doc said she needs to consult her Over-Shrink before she can make a diagnosis. I'm supposed to start taking some sleeping pills and keep a journal of my activities." I roll my eyes. We're all familiar with doctors' love of journaling symptoms.
The General's eyes get big and she raises an eyebrow, "So you're crazy now? We've been saying that for years, haven't we La Femme?"
"You could try not to be so excited you know," La Femme throws an elbow that the General dodges easily, then turns back to me.
My coworker Alice keeps glancing over at the bar. I am really not in the mood to get a lecture from management because of my roommates. I sigh and say "Guys, I am not discussing doctors while I am at work. What if someone were to overhear? We'll discuss it when I get home. Finish your beer and get out."
The General looks like she's ready to launch into her "paying customer" debate, and La Femme claps her manicured hand over the General's mouth, "No problem. See you tonight."
I walk back to the blenders, and when I next look at the end of the bar they're gone.
1. Eff: The sound of the letter F, which I use in place of the "F word"
2. Tool: One who lacks the mental capacity to know he is being used.
3. Fran Dresher: Nasally voiced star of TV show The Nanny 1993-1999.
4. Yes, I am totally one of those people who refers to her animal as her child. I do not, however, dress Drama up in clothing. Mostly because she refuses to move when she's in anything but a harness. She's my little Naked Girl.
5. Biff: the sound made from pronouncing the acronym B.F.F. (Best Friend Forever)
6. No, it's not 1999. My parents live in BFE (Bum Fuck, Egypt), and BFE has no cellular reception. Bum Fuck Egypt: The boonies; the middle of nowhere; an extremely isolated, inaccessible, inconvenient location.
7. Trashed: Drunk, under the influence of alcohol, usually to a large extent.
8. Buzz: In relation to alcohol: used to describe mild inebriation/intoxication.
9. Pee-Beer: First used as a play on the initials for Pabst Blue Ribbon (PBR-defined on Urban Dictionary as "Dirt cheap shitty beer. Welcome to college"), now used to insult any beer one thinks "tastes like piss."
10. Shiz: "The Shit" (in a good way). The be all, end all. The absolute best. Things or possessions. In this case, used to express something I'm considered to be great at.
11. To be schooled: To be taught a lesson. To get defeated miserably-to lose with humiliation.
12. I am a total prude. I do not want to ever discuss anything sexual or engage in PDA. Oddly, my mother worked for an OB/GYN and was completely open with my siblings and me about all topics while we were growing up.
13. Guy Liner: A thinly applied, no frills eye liner, normally black, worn by guys.
14. Reveille: A bugle call that plays every morning on military bases, usually at 0630, 0700, or 0730. Used as a signal to wake up or a signal for a drill team/flag detail to raise the US flag for the day.
15. Meth: An abbreviation for methamphetamine, made from cold medicine and other easily obtained chemicals, known for the considerable damage done to one's looks-generally regarded a white-trash drug.
16. Fwap: A slightly less forceful slap, usually with the back of the hand. It's all in the wrist.
1 Eff: The sound of the letter F, which I use in place of the "F word"
2 Tool: One who lacks the mental capacity to know he is being used.
3 Fran Dresher: Nasally voiced star of TV show The Nanny 1993-1999.
4 Yes, I am totally one of those people who refers to her animal as her child. I do not, however, dress Drama up in clothing. Mostly because she refuses to move when she's in anything but a harness. She's my little Naked Girl.
5 Biff: the sound made from pronouncing the acronym B.F.F. (Best Friend Forever)
6 No, it's not 1999. My parents live in BFE (Bum Fuck, Egypt), and BFE has no cellular reception. Bum Fuck Egypt: The boonies; the middle of nowhere; an extremely isolated, inaccessible, inconvenient location.
7 Trashed: Drunk, under the influence of alcohol, usually to a large extent.
8 Buzz: In relation to alcohol: used to describe mild inebriation/intoxication.
9 Pee-Beer: First used as a play on the initials for Pabst Blue Ribbon (PBR-defined on Urban Dictionary as "Dirt cheap shitty beer. Welcome to college"), now used to insult any beer one thinks "tastes like piss."
10 Shiz: "The Shit" (in a good way). The be all, end all. The absolute best. Things or possessions. In this case, used to express something I'm considered to be great at.
11 To be schooled: To be taught a lesson. To get defeated miserably-to lose with humiliation.
12 I am a total prude. I do not want to ever discuss anything sexual or engage in PDA. Oddly, my mother worked for an OB/GYN and was completely open with my siblings and me about all topics while we were growing up.
13 Guy Liner: A thinly applied, no frills eye liner, normally black, worn by guys.
14 Reveille: A bugle call that plays every morning on military bases, usually at 0630, 0700, or 0730. Used as a signal to wake up or a signal for a drill team/flag detail to raise the US flag for the day.
15 Meth: An abbreviation for methamphetamine, made from cold medicine and other easily obtained chemicals, known for the considerable damage done to one's looks-generally regarded a white-trash drug.
16 Fwap: A slightly less forceful slap, usually with the back of the hand. It's all in the wrist.