The Gabe Factor

In another post sometime I will tell you how my search for Patty, my 8th grade best friend who used to date Charles Christmas, led me to having a mistaken conversation with Other Patty, another Patty I went to school with that wasn't my Patty. 

The convo was fruitful. She told me what she was up to and she also confirmed that Gabe, this boy we went to school with, somehow got involved with drugs and died. I recently even talked to my aunty and cousin who knew him and his family. His death shocked everyone. 

Honestly, I can't even invision Gabe smoking a cigarette. He was cute. He was funny. He was bright. He could sing. He and some other boys were in a singing group. I remember they sang  "All My Life" by KC and JoJo at a middle school assembly. We were not good friends, but we once did a project together where we had a spirited discussion on when it's appropriate to use an acronym which, oddly enough, is a debate I've had many times over the years. Other Patty said she felt he turned to drugs because his music career didn't work out. 

I'm not sure if this is true, but the thought it might be led me to have a conversation with Lisha about how we don't express to kids the importance of having a reliable and attainable plan B. No one knows better than me how hard it is when your dream life doesn't work out. How can we prepare kids for this without crushing their goals? I say kids because this definitely isn't something you want to start considering at 20 when your back is against the wall. 

Honestly, I'm not sure doing so would even matter. Telling me I should have a solid plan B would not have caused me to stop striving towards being a writer. Like I said, I didn't know Gabe closely, but I'm sure that having a plan B would not have stopped him from singing. The hard truth is that you have to take life when it comes how it comes, prepared or not. That's pretty much a golden rule. There's no acronym for that. 

Meth Breath and Meth Man

There is this married couple that goes to the gym that I affectionately call Meth Breath and Meth Man. They are the friggin' greatest!
After a couple of years of watching Intervention and Celebrity Rehab, I have diagnosed them as Meth addicts. The woman, a pale redhead that may not be that much older than me, wears this teeny tiny hot pink bikini that is right out of an 80s music video. But she doesn't shave well enough, so when her bikini bottom gets wet and heavy, it sags down her jay-jay and you can see her fire-red pubes! That's a token sign of a Meth addict- just not giving a crap. But even the bad swimwear and hairy bikini line I could forgive if her teeth didn't look like she has been chewing on sharp bark (another Meth symptom). This the one trait she shares with her odd-ball hubby.
At first glance, you would think he is her father. He is old enough to be. But their body language toward each other, which is so hot and sexual that you fear that they will stop and do each other between pool laps, makes it very clear that they are together. Don't get me wrong, they are both socially awkward, but her husband is so on edge with his beady brown eyes that you just sense that at any moment he is going to pop out of the water and yell, "I'm on drugs OK!" He is also QUITE hairy. The whole back of him looks likes a rug, and to see him wet in the pool would make you want to hurl. How can I explain him? His young bride and his crazy facial expressions lead one to think he has done something really, really bad making you convinced upon first glance that he has molested a child or something.
One thing is true though: they are clearly in a beautiful, codependent love. I guess there is no love like Meth love.