Life is Busting out ALL Over!

I’ve got nothing.

Posted on: June 4, 2008

Except this.

So I’ve got this neighbor guy. (not what you think, although that would be nice/awkward but not with this one). I’ve seen him on and off in the 9 months I’ve lived here. Our garages share a driveway.

Friday night was the start of Extreme Weather ’08. Where every rain cloud somehow ended up as a tornado and the weather guys on TV surely felt like rock stars because they broke into regular programming from 8pm until 3am straight to report on things like wind velocity.

Anyway, I went outside to do something and I saw him, I said hello and asked something about where we were located (I know where I’m located but I have NO IDEA about the counties around us in Indiana) and the tornado warnings. So then he shares his info on the weather and then pulls out his GPS/Blackberry to pull up the radar and SHOWS me. I was like, uh, you could just said “no, it’s not coming towards us.” Felt invasive a little. But I’m sensitive to personal space, so I’m sure it wouldn’t have bothered anyone else.

Since Friday night, I probably see the guy at least 10 times a day. When I’m leaving go to go work, come home to work, go to class, take out the garage, have a stress induced cigarette, you get the idea. He’s either out there smoking or just sitting in one of the two chairs they have inside his garage. (I thought only old men did this?). Definitely get the gay vibe though and not attracted in the least if he’s not.

So I just go out to my car because I left my phone in there and I see him AGAIN. Seriously. And my thought was “This guy totally likes me.” WTF. Where did *that* come from, egotistical much? Then I had the most random memory:

A week after graduating college, I flew alone to meet up with 3 of my friends from high school in Europe. The four of us backpacked together for 2 weeks, and then 2 of them flew home leaving my other friend (well call her Lindsay Healey) and I for the remainder of the month.

Lindsay and I were definitely friends but I didn’t know her as well as the others. Still, she was easy going and so was I, so it worked well. Until about a week into our trip with just the two of us.

We were in London at a really busy/touristy cafe near Buckingham Palace. The place was fricking packed. Lindsay and I were sitting at a table across from each other – she was facing the entrance and I was facing a mirror, so obviously I could see an entrance. At the exact same time, both of us looked up, we spotted the HOTTEST guy ever walk into the cafe. Clearly, because the entrance was where it was he was facing Lindsay, he could have been looking at himself in the mirror, for a hostess to get seated, for friends or anything. I mean it was crowded and confusing and loud. Lindsay goes, “That guy is totally looking at me, definitely checking me out!” I was like, WTF, over? Seriously??

I mention this because that was the strongest memory that came back to me, but also it was not the first time, she had said something while we were backpacking. Our group of friends always joked that “Everybody’s in love with Lindsay” because she was so insistent about it. I didn’t know her as well as the others so I didn’t think she was actually serious about it. The last day of my trip, we were in Munich, leaving a pub, and a guy I had been making eye contact all night, followed us out the door shouting in English with a German accent, “STOP!!” to LIndsay and I. Being smart girls, we just kept going and out the door. He followed. “Girls!” he said. We turned around. He walked up me and asked, “What’s your name?” I told him. He smiled and went back inside. On our way back to the train, Lindsay exclaimed, “OH MY GOD!! I can’t believe that guy actually stopped me! He had been looking at me all night!”

Directly after London, we took the train to Amsterdam, a place I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back without being nauseous after the display I put my liver on during my 18 hour stay there. We had arrived with no place to stay (as was the norm for us) and met some girls who had just graduated from UVA in the train station. They told us their hostel wasn’t sold out, so we walked back with them to the hostel and got a room. They came and found us and said they were meeting some friends at the Irish pub next door so we went over to meet them. Couple guys and girls, it was pretty fun after we all drank enough to get over the whole “You people are complete strangers and I’ll never see you again” thing.

Lindsay was sitting next to a guy in this group. He was definitely flirting with her (and she had every right to say he liked her, because it was obvious) but for the first time in history, she had no idea. He had been ordering shots for the table all night. Finally the (cute) Irish bartender gives just Lindsay a shot. Only her and told her in his cute Irish accent, that a mystery man had sent it to her. Well, if Lindsay had only looked to her right, she would have found her mystery man. I mean COME ON! It was so obvious to all of us and I would have just told her, but I didn’t want to embarrass her. Lindsay was convinced it was the Irish bartender who sent her the shot, and HE LIKED her. The guy (and true mystery man because his friend told me, a fact I had shared with her later, which she didn’t believe) wanted all of us to go out dancing. I like pubs and I like Kilkenny, made by Guiness, more so I didn’t really want go and Lindsay decided her goal in life was to get the Irish bartender to acknowledge he, in fact, was the mystery man. The guy finally gave up and the group left to go clubbing.

That left Lindsay and I by ourselves. Correction, that left me by MYSELF at this big table. Because by this point, Lindsay was so far on her quest to get the bartender to admit that he sent the shot, and therefore in fact he liked her, that she was harrassing him at the bar, in front of the bar, she actually got behind the bar to talk to him and about an hour later as he was running back and forth from the basement up to bar, I actually saw Lindsay clothesline him.

But don’t worry about me, I wasn’t by myself for long. Two Australian men came up to me to ask if I knew the crazy girl who at that point was crawling on top of the bar to talk to the bartender. They sat down and the rest is history (and never to be told. but ew, not what you are thinking). God, I love Australia.

Anyway, Lindsay would come by the table every so often saying things like “He is so cute!!” and then my favorite, “Get this! His name is LARRY HEALEY!! How perfect is that??” I was like “Uhhhhh. Lindsay, you could be RELATED! Gross.” That really didn’t stop her because about an hour or so later, one of the Australians goes, “hey, isn’t that your friend making out with the bartender?” Yep, yes it was. And then about hours (time didn’t really exist at this point) later, I realized I hadn’t gotten a Lindsay update in awhile (the last one has been “I think, after you leave Europe, instead of meeting my friends in France, I’m going to come back here to see Larry”). I searched the bar and then asked the Aussies if they had seen her. “Yeah,” one of them said, “I saw her leave the bar with the bartender awhile ago.” SERIOUSLY. Without telling me, and in Europe with a guy/potential relative, went home with him, we had no cell phones. (which I found out was actually a 45 minute train ride away in a house he shared with 12 guys)

It ended up okay/traumatic as she didn’t show up until after our check out time, hours before our train was leaving for Berlin. Thinking my friend was dead, I had packed up our room, all her stuff and my stuff and fortunately found one of the UVA girls to stash our stuff in their room while I was waiting for the pub to open to get the Larry Healey’s phone number. The pub was closed and Lindsay returned, in one piece, just as I was trying to get the number for the US Embassy from the front desk.

The best part was not that we waited for the pub to open to say good bye and for the lovers/relatives to exchange email addresses (very circa 2000) or the Sunday we wasted in Berlin going to every internet cafe possible hoping one would be open so she could see if he emailed her. The best part was after she said her tearful (I’m serious) goodbye, having learned absolutely zero lessons, she looked down at the email address and said, “Oh my god. His name is BARRY. It’s not Larry!”

So yeah… I haven’t thought about that in years, except for the 85 times I told the story to my friends when I got home. Crazy.

If I were to speak in generalizations about an inflated ego, the Moral Story would be this: Friends don’t let friends go to Notre Dame or they might think they are such hot shit that they convince themselves a false reality does exist and end up sleeping with their 9th cousin.

P.S. The journal I kept from this trip is INSANE, hysterical, and really self-involved. It shall burn when I die.


3 Responses to "I’ve got nothing."

BEST STORY EVER. No, really. Love, love, and also LOVE.

Also, it sounds achingly familiar to my own European travels. I won’t tell you if I’m you or Lindsey Healey. Or possible LARRY BARRY. What? That doesn’t even make sense.

LOL. Well if you ended up “choosing” an Australian and then convincing the hotel clerk/resident drug dealer to open up the bar in the hotel for you just to have a Heineken and then ended up discussing emo bands like Promise Ring and Pedro the Lion and Get Up Kids with the clerk/drug dealer/bartender until 7am so you keep drinking more beer, then yes, you might be me (and that’s all fess up to).

But quite honestly, I would prefer LARRY BARRY to the guy she ended up marrying, fellow ND alum, on whose first time meeting all of us used the word “Irish” as an adjective, noun and even verb as every other word and then proceeded to say the only thing he drinks are Irish Car Bombs.

Seriously, how are these my friends?

And also, neighbor guy was outside sitting in his flipping garage in that stupid car when I got home tonight. So annoying.

[…] It’s typical that the guy across from me, known as stalker guy, that every flipping time I go outside is also outside watching me…. is married. This not […]

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musings and panic attacks of a Chicago girl embarking on a new life in Texas. Only it's not always June and it's not in song.

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