The following is a text from my best friend and former roommate, Shoe. We've known each other since…read morewe were six, so she's allowed to hit me with my most embarrassing moments of all time without needing forgiveness.
Shoe:
"I saw a TikTok yesterday where someone talked about getting so drunk that they peed in their closet at 3 AM, and it reminded me of that time you got drunk, woke up in the middle of the night, and relieved yourself on that pile of clothes on your floor at Stormy Garcia (the name we gave our apartment based on its previous occupant). Oh, good times. Anywho, happy holidays!"
Oddly, this story has been coming up a lot lately. Before you hear it from someone else, I'd like to go on record. This is my 8 Mile B. Rabbit vs. Papa Doc final rap battle story.
The prelude is a little foggy, as this happened nearly twenty years ago and there was alcohol involved. I came home trashed from whatever Wicker Park hipster dive bar I chose to be over-served at that particular night and immediately passed out in my twin bed.
I remember having a very vivid dream about needing to pee, but being far too tired to walk the five steps across the narrow hallway to the bathroom right outside my room. I had the brilliant idea to just go on the floor, squatting off the side of my bed.
This is genius. I should do this more often. Great idea. I'll just give it a quick Swiffer in the morning. Everyone's gonna be doing this. Zzzzz.
When I woke up, I was dry, fully clothed, but something was suspiciously off. I never have dreams that are as clear as that. It's normally an H.R. Pufnstuf bowling-alley strike-screen jumble--.
I had, in fact, gone off the side of my bed but into a laundry basket full of my clothes. Not just any clothes. Clothes that had been recently laundered, folded, and had just been minding their own business, waiting to be put away.
I remembered this godawful moment for the next nineteen years with a shiver of mild embarrassment.
One day, absolutely out of the blue, I reconnect with an old friend. The kind with benefits, backdoor privileges, and a copy of my apartment key at the time.
He recounts the exact same story with vivid details, not because I had shared this with him previously, but because he was a primary source. He was in the bed with me, trying (feebly) to dissuade me, and then forced to watch while this all transpired.
How the hell did I block that part out?
"But I know something about you. You went to Cranbrook. That's a private school."
I still don't know what this information was meant to accomplish.
As if private education was going to un-do the laundry basket.
The Avenue in downtown Lansing reminds me of this moment and of being twenty-three years old again. It's messy, it's weird, it's a bit skanky, it's mixing every spirit behind the bar with reckless abandon, and it couldn't possibly be more fun. I've only been there twice, but it always seems to be "Ratchet Night," which I respect deeply.
There was an amateur drag show the last time I was there, so I found myself hobnobbing with the who's-who of the Lansing-area LGBTQIA+ scene. This included a girl in a gimp mask and a bartender dressed as a literal clown. Face paint. Lavender pigtails. A polka-dotted hat with a pom-pom on top.
Whatever. It doesn't really matter, because this clown made me one of the best drinks I've had in a very long time.
It was a pistachio espresso martini, and it was a work of art. Real pistachios. Whipped cream. It took at least five minutes to assemble. I wanted to order ten more, but on a busy Saturday night, I could not bring myself to be that person with a high-maintenance drink order.
After I mixed many exotic drinks together, I took to the dance floor and absolutely destroyed it to I'm Lookin' for the Hoes by Sexyy Red, followed by that seminal work on big jugs, Tia Tamera by Doja Cat.
The rest is kind of a blur, but I do remember getting a shoutout from the emcee before I left.
They said, "Judith hit so sticky."
I said, "Thank you very much."
Bent the whole world over and said, "Spank you very much."
Nah, I'm just playin'. I went home and got sick in a sink that night.
At least I didn't ruin a hamper, though.
