As you may have noticed, it’s been a while since I’ve blogged with any regularity. So in order to prevent myself from trying to write an excessively voluminous Master’s Thesis on “Catching Up: The Year That Was, But That You Don’t Know About Yet Because Life Spent A Whole Bunch Of Months Trying To Kill Me”, I decided to ease myself back into things by sharing this story that’s been rolling around in my head for a while.
So a few months ago a friend of ours called us and said, “If the FBI or the Secret Service call you about me, then here is what you can and cannot tell them about me.”
Well alrighty then.
As it turned out, she was applying for a fairly high-level government job, one which required being background-checked by other high-level government agencies. So she was calling to sort of point us in the direction of the things she hoped we would say about her.
“OK,” I said, as I quickly ran through the years of our friendship. “As long as they don’t ask me to swear that you always knew where your bra was at any given point in time.”
“Well,” she said, “a lot of people may have seen my bra, but I knew where it was at all times.”
“Um, WHAT?!” I asked, afraid to hear the answer.
“Yeah. It was at this party I went to right after I moved up here. I was wearing this awesome orange snakeskin bra. And if you have something orange and snakeskin, then people should see it. Plus, I had to flash it to escape from the crazy people.”
“Yeah,” she said, beginning to warm to her story. “There was this guy there who was trying to convince everyone that he was an actual pirate. And he wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s not something you hear everyday.”
“I know. So I played along with it for a while, but then I got tired of it, so I told him, ‘You’re not a pirate-YOU’RE JUST A HAIRY WHITE GUY. And while I do appreciate that you stay in character 24/7, even to the point of not wearing any deodorant, YOU STINK. And you don’t have a ship. And you live in a sh***y apartment. Even a pirate would say you’re gay.’ ”
“All very good points,” I said.
“I know. But actually, he’s not the scariest person I’ve met here. Like when I’m out walking or riding the subway late at night, I’m always wanting to get out my taser. But it’s hard to get to, because it’s under all my makeup, and my wallet, and my bullets…”
“WHAT?! You carry bullets around in your purse?
“Jenny,” she replied, “I carry bullets everywhere. And I always have my gun within arms’ reach. Because you never know when you might need to shoot a zombie. Or something.”