Foolish Thoughts

(Molly, Me, and Maggie)

My life is now a little more complete:  Molly is here.  My world makes a little more sense when she’s in it.  I sleep better at night, or should I say, I have more fun at night when she’s here.  Nothing’s better than a night out with Molly, then the next day, recalling and piecing together the night through pictures and broken, hazy stories.  Aw, the memories.

I met Molly three years ago.  You can read more about that here.  We spend the majority of our friendship talking on the phone, updating each other on our lives and whereabouts.  Then, come May, she comes back to me, where we spend the next four months joined at the hip.

I could spend hours telling stories and conversations the two of us have shared, but most only make sense to us.  So, I will neither bore you nor confuse you with them.   Oh, why not?  I will leave you with this conversation we had Sunday night/early Monday morning.  It sums up our friendship quite nicely.

Brooke:  “Do you remember…?”

Molly:  “YES!”

Brooke:  “And the….?”

Molly:  “And that guy, with the…”

Brooke:  “And then you…”

Molly:  “YES!  OH MY GOSH, that night was SOOO crazy and SOOO fun.”

Brooke:  “Ahh…………………”

Molly:  “Ahh…………………”

Molly:  “I think we need another drink.”

Brooke:  “I think you might be right.”

Mom:  Long sigh, accompanied with rolled eyes, “What’s wrong?”

Brooke:  “…………………..”

Mom:  “Why are you crying?”

Brooke:  (Insert horrible sobbing, along with snot and tears) “I don’t know.”

Mom:  “What do you mean you don’t know?  Is there something wrong?  Did you have a bad day at school?  Are you hurt?”

Brooke:  Still sobbing, “No…I don’t know.”

Mom:  “Brooke!”

Brooke:  “What?  I don’t know.”

Mom:  “Well, if nothings wrong then dry it up and put a smile on your face.”

Brooke:  “It hurts my face to smile.”

Mom:  Another long sigh, but with hands thrown in the air, “Fine.  Then cry.  I give up.”

Throughout my three years in junior high, this was the daily conversation my mother and I shared when she would get home from work.  I would be thrown across my bed, face down, crying into a pillow.  To talk, I would only slightly turn my head, never making eye contact with her.  She was concerned and she did care, but she was tired.  She was tired with it all, “It” being me. 

I hated junior high.  I hated going.  I hated being there.  I hated myself while I was there.  It wasn’t that I was an outcast, and I wasn’t that girl that everyone made fun of.  I had friends, but I wasn’t popular, that wasn’t the problem.  I didn’t mind that I wasn’t popular.  I felt that I was popular enough.  I had the cool clothes, the cool shoes, good grades, good hair, good complexion, and good friends.  But still, I was miserable and I would come home and cry everyday.  I guess puberty had a lot to do with it.  My hormones were severely off balance.  I believe I had a chronic stomach ache for three years.  I would refuse to go to school the week I was on my period, complaining that I was in too much pain, and my teachers wouldn’t allow me to go to the bathroom during class and I didn’t have time to go between classes.  I would beg my mother every morning to let me stay home.  This ploy only worked about once every two or three months.  On the days she made me go, I would call, usually after lunch and plead with her to come and get me.  This tactic rarely worked either, and when it did, I was not taken home, but taken to her office where I would bounce between examining rooms until the end of the day, when she was finished seeing patients.  How I rationalized this was better than being at school is still a mystery to me.

School overall, sucked.  However, what got me through each day, beginning in eighth grade, was my pre-algebra teacher, Mrs. Zutaut.  Without her, I’m not sure I would have made it through junior high.  She fascinated me and I looked up to her for that reason alone.  She took time to listen and offer advice.  She allowed me to hang out in her room when I didn’t want to go to class.  She was my safe haven, someone I could talk to, someone I could go to, someone who took an interest.  She was my teacher, a teacher who at the time cared.  While shuffling through boxes of my books today, I stumbled upon a book she gave me, along with a poem and a letter.  The poem said:

Tears streamed down my face as I read these words.  Still, after all these years I realize I still look to my parents, teachers, friends, and now even boy friends, and jobs to determine who I am.  Even years of maturing and growing, I have not learned to trust in myself.  I’m not sure if that’s a skill I will grasp.  I rely so heavily on what other people think that I’ve lost sight of who I am.  I realize I do this, but still, I continue to do it…Why?

Looking back now, I ask myself, was I a depressed teenager?  Sure.  Was I just going through a phase?  Yeah.  Did I eventually out-grow it?  Sort of.  My mother would say I’ve gotten better, but I still have my moments.  And I would have to agree with her.  I still go through days where I prefer to be alone and be down and depressed.  I feel you can’t be happy everyday, though my mother doesn’t agree.  She says, “Being happy is sometimes a choice, and sometimes you have to choose to be happy.”  I believe that’s true to a degree.  But then I feel that sometimes it’s ok to be sad and unhappy, and not know why.  I still hate it when she say’s, “Put a smile on your face, let me see the pretty girl hiding under that frown.”  And I always respond with, “It hurts my face to smile.”   

Jaymez:  Dear Jesus, I’m so hungry.  Could you please send me some food?  PLEASE!!  Thank you.

Brooke:  I’m sorry, Jesus doesn’t feed homos.

Jaymez:  APPARENTLY! We are fucking starving and we have to wait on Donald.

Brooke:  That’s just Jesus laughing at you.

Jaymez:  I hope your vagina falls off.

A text message with Jaymez earlier this evening.  I need to visit him, it’s been too long.

“Is that a statement or a question?”

“A statement.  Jeff just left with lucky hoe number two, leaving me stranded with no car and no place to sleep.”

“Of course, you know you are always welcome.  But you know how I like to sleep, in the middle.  Can you handle that?”

“It’s never bothered me before.”

“Good.  Another shot?”

“Another shot.”

This conversation, with a very close, dear friend took place around 2:00 AM in a bar downtown.  Actually, it was bar number two.  Now, I know the three of us, Friend 1, Friend 2, and I walked from bar one to bar two.  Where at bar two, Friend 2 (Jeff), leaves with a young, attractive, yet easy girl.  Who, Friend 1 and I all night long refer to as, “Hoe number two.”  However, I don’t remember our exact transportation back to bar one, where my car was parked.  We were a good six blocks from bar one.  I just remember being back there, taking more shots of tequila.  I don’t remember what time we left, how much we had to drink, or who drove home.  The last coherent conversation I remember is the one stated above.  I remember friend 1 and I flirting like teenagers all night, like we always do.  Taking shot after shot of tequila, trying to prove to each other who could, hands down drink more (I believe I won, I’m almost positive).  Then, somehow, someway, just like in the movies we were suddenly at my front door with me struggling with my keys.  How we got home is still a mystery to me.  A miracle, I tell you.  The Gods must have been in our favor because not only did we both get home safe, but so did my car.

After focusing and giving myself a little pep talk, I manage to open the door.  Once inside I kick my shoes off, throw my keys in the mail basket, and I lead our drunken butts upstairs.  At this point we are both stumbling over our feet and our words.  He goes straight to the bathroom; I make a b-line for my room.  I don’t bother to turn on the light.  I take off my jacket, my shirt, my jeans, toss them in the floor and I throw on a t-shirt.  I take my hair down and I literally fall into bed.  I lay there for what seems like hours, begging the room to stop spinning.  Bargaining with myself, “I promise never to drink again, just please, PLEASE don’t get sick.”  I’m almost asleep when I hear and feel him slide into bed.  I say good night and roll over.

(Now, I feel I need to remind you that we are friends, good friends.  This is not our first time sharing a bed.  No, this is just one of many.  We know the routine: climb in, say good night and roll over.  That’s us.  That’s our friendship.  Yes, we flirt like mad, but that’s it, just flirting and teasing.)

Now, the room has stopped spinning and my body is finally starting to relax and I calm down.  When out of no where he rolls over, pushes up next to me, and slides his hand on to my hip.  I can feel his warm breath against my neck.  In my head I think, “Ok, he’s a snuggler.  I’m not.  But if he wants to cuddle, ok but I’m going to be comfortable.”  So, I back up into him and reposition myself; close, but comfortable.  Finally, we are both situated and I start to fall back asleep.  Then, I feel his strong, soft hand start to head south.  He slowly slides his hand over my hip.  Then, with out any invitation or warning, his hand glides straight over my hip, across my stomach and down my panties.  WHAT?  The only thing my drunken mind can register is, “Wait, what is going on here?  This feels wrong, but REALLY GOOD.  I’m confused.”  I was half in shock, half excited, and half drunk.  I know, I know, I have one-half too many, but that’s how I felt.  Of course, “REALLY GOOD” won out, 10 to 1.  In my self-pleasing mind, pleasure always triumphs.  It had been a long time and it felt good, so I jumped at the opportunity, or rather it jumped at me. 

I slowly reach down, wrap my hand around his and guide him inside me.  I slowly turn and face him and our eyes meet.  There is so much intensity in his eyes, that I hold our gaze, just starring at him.  He whispers, “Are you sure you want to do this?”  I shake my head, and then ask, “Are YOU sure you want to do this?”  Then with that beautiful big smile, he shakes his head, yes.

…….2 minutes later…….

“I can live with that” 

Mom: “You’re going to sneak it in?”

Brooke: “YES, I’m a rule breaker.  Want to join me?  Live on the dangerous side?”

Mom: “If we’re caught, we’ll get kicked out.”

Brooke: “True, but it will be fun, like an adventure.  We can even have code names…Thelma and Louise, and on the way home we can drive off a cliff.”

Mom: “Ok, but I don’t want water, get me a Diet Coke.”

Brooke: “Whoa, Diet Coke…don’t get too wild on me.”

Later at the movies……………………….

Mom: “Can I please have a large popcorn and a Diet Coke?”

Brooke: “Mom, what are you doing?  You already have something to drink.”

Mom: “I know, but I just can’t do it.”

Brooke: “Are you serious?  It’s a freaking Diet Coke.  You’re not smuggling in a five star cuisine.”

Mom: “I know, I know.  But, I can’t break the rules, it’s against the law.”

Brooke: “Wow, remind me if I ever need someone to help me move a dead body, not to call you.  You disappoint me Mom.”