Friday, April 4, 2008

Perfect Timing

I’ve been sort of shrouded in this gloomy cloud lately that’s been extraordinarily hard to shake, but sometimes the simplest things make you realize that one day that bastard of a gray rain cloud will eventually disappear.
Ah, my sorority days…I’m reminded of them almost daily. Most of my now close girlfriends I met at some point during my tenure, so it’s not unusual to have a steady stream of “remember that one time’s” rolling in – such as – remember that one time when I was blow drying my hair in the hallway in my bra and the old handyman came up the stairs just in time to witness me diving frantically back into my room, leaving the hairdryer still running on the carpet. Or, when we sorta kinda “accidentally” left the back door open a crack and the Delta Chis happened to run through the upstairs of our house donning only stocking caps in strategic places…or on their heads…and the fun haters of our house shit their pants…or when we had weekly naked pillow fights…Oh…wait…
Needless to say, those four years were a wild ride and I would guess the majority of those fun times were sorority related in some way. But, like everything in life, the sorority world had its bad times too. And, I would probably contribute most of those bad times to the absolute mega-ultron fun hater of the universe – our head sorority advisor, Jan (name changed of course - I’m pretty sure that crazy bitch would hunt me down!).
So, we may have done a few things that weren’t exactly ladylike – whoever said you had to be sorority-esk to be in a sorority? But Jan insisted we all adopt the lifestyles of nuns in order to live in “her” convent, so we were reprimanded more than a handful of times. It got so bad that I’m fairly sure she either began making up stories on her own or brainstorming with her own personal fun hating army of members because we started being called into development (a.k.a. the oops, you-fucked-up-and-now-you’re-in-trouble meeting with the house head honchos) for things we’d never even tried to attempt. My favorite? Apparently at some point, members of the house heard us doing drugs and taking shots in our room, which lead us to ask the burning question – What does taking a shot actually sound like?
While most of the ladies who did not have a tree trunk sized sticks permanently shoved up their asses, knew Jan was an unreasonable asshat, the group of us had a particularly personal vendetta with her.
We made it out alive and I wouldn’t have had the experience any other way, but a slow smile spread across my face as I read an e-mail I got from the alumni relations chair today announcing her retirement. Oh, dear god, those poor girls are finally off the hook! I thought as I read on. Apparently some of the girls or the advisory board or somebody was putting a scrapbook together for her and they were asking any alumnae to send photos or a note to Jan to include in the scrapbook. Thinking of the saying, “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it at all,” I clicked off of the e-mail and went on with my work. But, a few hours later when I checked my e-mail again, my partner in crime, Kate, had sent me and another fellow troublemaker, Lacey, a reply to the retirement e-mail that went a little something like this:

" do I word it just right?

Dear Jan,

You’re a snatch. I hate your face.

(Insert sorority nickname) Love and Mine,

After I changed my wet pants, started breathing again and explained my hysterics to my bewildered co-workers, I read on:

"Mwah-ha-ha!! I think we should send some pictures :) Do you think we could re-create the ass picture from the door of Room 11 and send it for her scrapbook?"

Oh. My. God. Who could forget the infamous ass picture? The three of us had taken this lovely photographic piece of art the summer after our freshman year of college when Kate and I road tripped it from Kansas City to Lacey’s tiny central Kansas hometown of Solomon – population 1,500. The entire town could fit in my high school and there were still three other high schools of equal size in my hometown, so we knew we’d have to get creative. Our first two and a half minutes were spent touring the town, then we got down to business – drinking. Her parents were out of town and being 19 and out of school for the summer, alcohol was a little hard to come by, so I did what any normal asshole teenager does – I stole some out of my parents’ liquor cabinet before I left. Now, I use the term “liquor cabinet” loosely because my parents’ consisted of a crusty bottle of grenadine most likely purchased before I was born and a sizeable bottle of fancy schmancy rum my dad took a nip of almost every night. Taking the rum was out of the question, so I tossed a few tiny bottles of unidentified liquor from the bottom shelf into my bag. All I knew was that they were brought back from one of my dad’s trips to Germany within the last decade…I think.
Our little adventurous selves lined the mysterious bottles up on the kitchen counter of Lacey’s parents’ house for a taste test and found ourselves coughing and exclaiming, “wow, this one kind of makes me want to curl up in a ball and die,” “This one just cleared my sinuses” and “this one only gives you the mild urge to vomit when you mix it with Coke.”
I’m not sure if it was the foul choice in alcohol or sheer boredom, but before we knew it, a ghetto ass R & B radio station was blaring and we were dancing around the house, posing with inanimate objects and taking pictures of each other – the kitchen chairs, a sawhorse in the under construction living room and her mom’s ceramic goose. Perhaps the Germans lace their teeny liquor bottles with crack…
At one point we decided it would be hilarious to squish our half bare asses together, hold the camera out and snap a pic.
And, we were right. That picture caused quite a stir in the convent. We posted it proudly on the outside of our door along with other choice wall-o-shame type photos. Apparently people bitched and moaned about it to Jan, who in turn tried to make us take it down and we refused until one day we came home to find a sad little hole on our door where our asses used to be. Somebody (or some fun hating snatch) in that house was an ass photo stealer and to this day I still don’t know what the hell the big deal was, I mean, they were just a few asses, everybody has one…God, we were totally the ink that tainted the fraternity (haha, there’s a hint).
I promptly sent a reply back to Kate that said, "Jesus Christ, I just pissed my pants after reading that! Thanks for making me laugh today." It was just what I needed to lift the seemingly perpetual gray rain cloud hanging over my head even for just a few hours. It’s funny how those things seem to have perfect timing. I mean, there’s nothing like memories of the advisor from hell, name calling and asses to cheer you up. Who says a couple of sorority bitches aren’t good for something?

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