I got to see two friends from college last night, which was fun. They were in town for the Royals/Cardinals game — Kansas City fans, of course. (And the Royals swept the three-game series!) The last time I saw B. was 1999, before I graduated; we all used to work on the college paper together. I last saw M. about five years ago. I flew back for what was supposed to be his wedding, but he and his fiancÃ©e split about a month before. Instead we went to a Royals game with Valerie (Hi, Val!) and Paul.
But sitting with Val and her favorite boys (Bevo and Paul, in no particular order) and talking to the visiting boys made me very thankful for my normal, nonjudgy friends. If you were to describe a stereotypical, homophobic bachelor, that’s the guy we were talking to. But there were two of them. And they were drunk.
After baseball and before the “who do you still talk to from college” discussions, they:
â€¢ Discussed strip clubs. They’d been to East St. Louis the night before. Need I say more?
â€¢ Drooled when two (very drunk) girls smooched near our table.
â€¢ Were uncomfortable when one of their female friends told them she was going to a party at a gay bar.
â€¢ Are so determined to prove their heterosexuality that one of them had T&A wallpaper on his cell phone. (Which was fine, until Valerie tried to give him her phone number — in case of emergency; she’s a happily married woman! — and then he got embarrassed and blushed.)
â€¢ Explained several times that they were staying in town with a friend — but in separate rooms.
And when I called something as a hot mess? Valerie got it. Paul got it, or at least played along. The boys, though, were confused. “What’s a hot mess?” they asked.
Wednesday night. Wednesday night was a hot mess.