Sunday, August 19, 2012

The shames ...


Well, I went to Rochester and now I'll probably never be allowed back in ever again. The social shame is strong, like pulsing, waves and flashes of my own voice in my head. Maybe a person shouldn't drink for 13 hours straight. And maybe if they do, they should cushion the blows with food before they start.

Yesterday I saw a photo of Fannie at the end of the night drinking a large glass of water and thought: "That bitch was drinking water. No wonder she doesn't hate herself right now." What a betrayal. I thought we were all in this together.

I got to the golf course about an hour late on Friday and was whisked by golf cart to No. 7 where my friends were trading samples of home brew for tricks. Golfers sang a school song or competed in a push ups competition or race with resident athlete Princess Linda. My friends were all so adorable and sunny and festive and giggly. So I immediately dipped into ice for a beer, then chased it with another. We were at a fundraiser for, gosh I don't even know what. Our alma mater?

Princess Linda schools someone at the old pushups on one leg trick. 
We ate Cheez Its. We peed in the woods using a single square of napkin. We chatted with the golfers and drank and drank and drank. Fannie, arty and fashionable, decided our shirts needed a little pizazz, so she sent this guy back to the clubhouse for scissors and began doctoring our shirts.

Fannie removed the neck, inserted a V and took off the sleeves.

A dude let me hit a golf ball off the tee. It's been years. Back in the day, when I was good at stuff, my parents used to say I had a great swing. I think now that they were trying to coax me into the family passtime. Golf courses bored me, though. I had a three hole limit before I started to itch with the tediousness of it all. 

Fannie lined up a few feet away to take a photograph and I almost took off her skull with a wayward shot. I was horrified on top of having to hunt down the ball in the woods. The owner of the club, tee and ball looked at me very seriously and said: "That wouldn't have been very funny if you'd killed your friend." No. He's right. It wouldn't have.

We went back to the clubhouse for food and chatter. I toured the kitchen of the restaurant where I'd had my first job. I thought I'd be more nostalgic, but I really wasn't. It's just a kitchen at a golf course, formerly famous for its Yo Burger. I talked much, ate little. I think the effects are obvious in this super cute photograph of my high school friends, where everyone looks like nice people and I look like the manic who is going to suck blood from the jugular of my junior prom date. 

From there we went to a rooftop bar downtown. Pa Pista stopped by to get my car keys so he could take my car from the golf course and back to their house. They worry about things like vandalism and hot wirings, where as I'm more like ... Meh. I'm tired of that car anyway. I was ill prepared to be in public. No money, no ID, my sanity still on No. 7. I have this image of my dad opening his wallet and handing me a $20. It was such a familiar sight, and only a little embarrassing. The boys tried to coax him into staying, but he declined. 


People came and went. I repeated monologues filled with nonsense. We danced. We rehashed. I had an entire text session with JCrew that I forgot. At the end of the night Fannie, Dong and I went to Perkins. We shared a cab back to the hotel, then I took it to my parents house. I only had enough money to tip the driver 50 cents and felt like a total jerk. In retrospect, the fact that I still had $9 at the end of the night means I couldn't have continued to drink too much. Unless people were buying me drinks. And aside from one round of shots, I don't remember that happening. So I must have been riding momentum -- ugly, ugly momentum. 


I slept horribly and woke up after just five hours of sleep. My mom took me to lunch. 
"What do you want to eat?" she asked. 
"Doesn't matter," I told her. "I'm just going to look at it anyway." 

I was surprised to find that my parents didn't hate me on Saturday morning. No pursed lips, no disappointment. We talked a lot about social shame and discovered it is hereditary. Ma Pista gets it after two glasses of wine; I get it after day drinking. I asked Fannie if my social shame was warranted and she paused. 

"Well," she said. "You were more drunk than (when Chuck and I were in Minneapolis two weeks ago). But you didn't do anything stupid." 

That sort of appeased me, but sort of did not. Fannie wasn't, like, attached to my hip and making sure I didn't say every thought that came into my head. 

My dad came home on his lunch break, dressed in his police uniform, and was too cute to register without a Richter Scale. My mom and I drove around Rochester, visiting various points of interests. Houses we lived in, the new high school, the site of a gruesome quadruple murder. 

I probably just should have hung out with those two all weekend. 

I left Rochester and noticed the social shame lessening the further I got from my hometown. It's nice to live up here in Northern Minnesota, far far from the scene of the crimes. I should probably wait a few years before returning to Rochester and/or seeing my high school friends. 



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