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. 

Savannah and the Pot

Savannah has taken up smoking pot...at 32. She, like every other pot smoker that I know, claims that she smokes to unwind.
The setup sounded like something sensuous and fabulous like a love scene out of the soap operas my grandma used to watch. She said she lights candles and takes a bath while listening to soft music. As I spoke to her I was beginning to feel high. Her voice was soft and light.
"You are a pharmacist!" I exclaimed. "Are you supposed to use drugs? What do you do? Go to the hood and score?"
The answer to that is no. Her plug is a fellow pharmacist that buys his own weed and sells her a portion of it for $125. $125! Man, the hobbies of the rich and privileged. I told her that for that type of money I would come to her house, hand bathe her, give her a mani/pedi, clean her house, and walk her dog as long as I was allowed a thirty-minute nap.
Over the years, almost all of my friends have suggested that I take up smoking weed or just doing drugs outright. Apparently, I am a highly emotional overthinker that needs to relax. No kidding! I have been trying to chill since I was about 11-years-old!
I have to say I am a little envious of Savannah though. If you had to put a price on having peace, $125 isn't that bad. Right now, she is probably in a really good pot sleep while I will be up all night munching on cookies and worrying about my future. She also has nothing but good things to say about her new-found habit, but I can't get with it. Call me old-fashioned, but I'd rather deal with my problems through overeating and stressing to the point of hair loss the way that God intended.

Thou Shall Not Text

When I was younger, I saw the Behind The Music of The Go-Gos. You know, the 80s group that sang "We've Got The Beat"? Well, even though they were really cute, most of the girls in the group were on coke really heavy, and one of them was addicted to heroin. She fell in love, went to rehab, and she said that first weekend that she was home she prayed the whole time. So hard, in fact, that her knuckles turned white. She was pleading with God to help her keep it together so that she wouldn't use. After that weekend she said that she never had a desire to use again. I liken the way she must have felt that weekend to how I felt yesterday trying my HARDEST not to text Faux-Mega.
Texting him would have been a bad idea for a shitload of reasons. One being that I already texted him last week, he should text me so I don't look as desperate as I feel. Second, I don't think he's meant to be in life. Texting him would have been a clear reaction of my hormones. And third, waiting for him to text me would have literally driven me mad!
But that doesn't mean that I didn't want a text from him though. I swear guys, I stared at that phone. I prayed over that phone. I did an Indian rain dance around the phone. I went through my messages and made sure I didn't overlook one.
I found myself pulling a Go-Go and just begging God to dismiss the urge to contact him from my system. I feel that God agreed that the whole sitch was a mess, and that I needed to just throw in the towel. So God, being the peach that He is, occupied my time by allowing me to talk to other friends.
The only difference between me and the Go-Go girl is that when the worst was over, I still kind of wanted to text him. This just proves my unwritten theory that heroin is easier to kick than a crush.

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.