April 4, 2011

miss adventures

Posted in herstory tagged , , at 3:45 am by ben

When I was ten years old we moved into the house across the street from Marie, she was two years older than me but thanks to proximity we became instant friends.  We went from sneaking treats from her mother’s freezer and reading Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys in her basement to stealing from my parents’ booze cabinet and getting a sexual education (via dirty books not experimentation) in my basement.  The internet really has changed everything.  Kids have access to so much more info (and pics and videos!) than we could have even imagined.  And it’s more sanitary, when I think of those ratty books with pages stuck together it makes me cringe.

In our late teens Marie and I started hanging out with a group of guys who we knew did a lot of drugs.  In an effort to not look ridiculous, know what we were getting into and not cough our guts out we decided to practice smoking dope before we did it with these guys or at a party.  Hey, it made sense in 1981!

We bought some pot but we didn’t know how much to buy so when Marie coolly said she wanted a pound of pot.  The dealer almost pissed himself.

Lesson number one learned.  Pot is not sold by the pound unless you’re a peddler.

We took our score to the elementary school playground and we sat atop a wooden structure that was sheltered and private.  We didn’t think/know to buy rolling papers so we figured a piece of regular old lined paper out of my science binder would work.  We also didn’t know how much to use in a typical doobie so we poured half of the ounce onto the paper and I rolled it up and twisted the ends creating a joint that’d make Cheech and Chong proud.

We lit the behemoth blunt and the paper burned  and most of our weed fell from the flames and subsequently blew away.

Lesson number 2 learned.  Rolling papers are not the same kind of paper as foolscap.

Our attempt with hash didn’t go much better.  We knew what hot-knifing was but we weren’t brave enough to abscond with our parents’ knives.  Science bitches that we were we thought that tinfoil would be a suitable substitute.  We folded a sheet of foil into a square about 3X3” and we even turned up the edges to form a makeshift tray (we didn’t want the hash to be able to roll off and escape like our pot did!).  We placed a small lump of the black tar on the foil and held a lighter beneath it.  We knew that when it started to smoke that we should start inhaling so we had even been prepared (Girl Guides all the way!) and brought a pen without the innards.

As the little wisps of smoke began to rise we took turns with the pen, inhaling and holding it in.  It was about the third hit that the lump of hash fell through a hole in the foil and onto the ground.  We had burned through the tinfoil.  We hadn’t been smoking hash, we had been smoking burning foil.  Harsh.

Lesson number 3 learned.  Nobody notices missing knives from restaurants.

And so went our teen years, adventure after misadventure, lesson after lesson learned together.

Marie’s father committed suicide when she was young and she and her little brother were raised by a strict religious mother.  In my armchair psychological view I think because Marie  never had it she craved attention from men.  By the time she graduated she was out of control and would have sex with any guy who was even remotely nice to her… and some who weren’t.  The information passed quickly between the boys and they practically lined up at her door.  Now I will admit I was no angel back in the day but in my mind at least I was discerning about who I gave my body to.  One night when I was drunk (not that that is an excuse) I referred to her as a slut.  To be honest I don’t remember saying it but I was disturbed by her behavior and I certainly thought it.

A short time later she and I were having coffee (smoking and eating fries) at our favorite hangout, a chinese restaurant where I later worked, when something came over me.  It was one of the strangest moments in my life and somehow I knew she’d slept with the boy I had been head over heels (and occasionally heels over head) for for several years.

“Did you have sex with Joe?” I asked point blank.

“Yes.” she answered as brutally.

“Why?  You don’t like him and you know I do.”

“You called me a slut, I wanted to prove you were right.”

Betrayal.

Of course I couldn’t see past my own hurt, all I could see was what she had done to ME!  I walked away from her then.

I was still bitter over it when I met my husband.  We had been seeing each other for a few weeks when I asked him if he knew her.  Fortunately he had no idea who she was because if he had it would have been a deal breaker for me.  I must have mellowed a little with motherhood because a few months after my son was born she approached me and for the first time in years I was open to it.  We started hanging out again and soon it was like the old days but I always kept a thin buffer of mistrust between us.

It was nearly ten years later when Marie met and married Jerry.  He was ten years her junior and frankly we thought he was a bit of an arrogant dick.  When their baby Dakota was born he proved his dickishness when he told her “You wanted a kid, you deal with it!”  When she got upset he said that he only married her because she was “set up”, she had a teaching career, a house and a car.  I didn’t have much respect for him already but I lost a lot for her because even after that she stayed with him.

Dakota stole my heart.  Marie had had a C-section  and she didn’t have a lot of baby experience so every night after I got off work I would go to their house and bathe the baby and help Marie out… since her husband was a useless twat.

A couple years later Marie took me aside and said “Remember when you cheated on Tom with that guy who was younger than you?”  I cringed and nodded as I recalled my less than stellar moment.  “Well, I am kind of seeing someone.”

I winced, not really surprised and wanted to plug my ears and chant “LALALALALALALA”

I should have because it got worse.

“He’s a student.  I was helping him out with some after school study sessions and we’ve gotten involved but you can’t say anything because you did it too.”

It was that moment of emotional blackmail that put the nail in the coffin of our friendship.  I could have dealt with her husband being an ass and her sticking with him, I could have dealt with her having an affair and I might even have been able to deal with her having an affair with a student (maybe not) but using something I told her in confidence as a tool to keep my silence and to tell me that I wasn’t allowed to judge her because what I did was similar??!  For starters what I did was nowhere near as extreme, the boy I cheated with was only three years younger than me and he sure as fuck wasn’t  a STUDENT!

to be continued…