Besides, it’s hot mama’s 21st birthday.
The College Man forces Miss Raquel to get down to business.
Raquel, like Gravy, has a penchant for teen-dream eighties flicks (particularly those starring the insufferable Molly Ringwald) and when we were younger she adopted a saying she absorbed from the previously heralded Some Kind Of Wonderful, a mantra which seems more and more fitting in each passing year: “You mess with the bull, you get the horns.”
Now don’t get me wrong, Raquel is a warm, gentle soul and if you deal with her straight she will put her life on the line for you. She’s moral and trustworthy and what’s more, she’s always been effortlessly social. This is a talent for which I had little teenage aptitude. While I spent my time in high school strategically avoiding uncomfortable social situations, Raquel plowed through those uncertain years seemingly oblivious to the bullshit that festered around her. I obsessed over snide comments delivered by ignorant doorknobs and Raquel simply turned up her headphones (Hootie and the Blowfish was her preferred form of “white noise”) and buried herself in a bedroom full of books. It’s not that little sis didn’t realize high school drama was unfurling around her, it’s just she recognized it for what it was – completely inconsequential. “I don’t have time for this bullshit, bitches. I’ve got work to do.”
And where did this noncommittal strategy take the lovely and bookish Miss Raquel? Straight to the Homecoming Queen podium, no fucking joke. When my mother and I heard Raquel was in the running for the crown we looked at each other and both said, “She’s gonna win.” And you know what, for perhaps the first time in recorded history, a Homecoming Queen was chosen for the right reasons. Raquel’s peers, whether they had anything in common with her on the surface or not, had RESPECT for her. She brought a warm and witty presence to her scholastics and extra-curriculars and even though she’s always been a shoot-from-the-hip kind of girl, she’s really a silly fucker underneath it all and not afraid to show it. The College Man once described her as “the definition of down-to-earth.” And upon this diamond personality for twenty-one years Miss Raquel has thrived.
But the real reason Raquel is and will always be such a social success, is because she seriously does not take shit from ANYONE. It’s not a quality that is overt and grating, but rather it pulsates like a protective shield cast by one of Mario’s magic mushrooms. Without being snooty or snobbish or aggressive, the girl’s presence just DEMANDS respect. She is one of the few intelligent, beautiful women I’ve known who’s managed to wind her way through life, exhibiting her many gifts and reaping rewards without much backlash. She's got a gift. It’s like the girl is coated in Vaseline – she just slides on through.
The thing is, you don’t want to mess with Raquel. She’s a royal bitch if you cross her the wrong way. Last summer she was driving home from a weekend out-of-state with her boyfriend Alex and Alex's little sister Casey. Casey had mentioned to a few scumbucket girls at the day camp she worked at with my sis that her family would be gone for the weekend and that she might hold a small get together the last night before her parents returned (Raquel, Alex and Casey returned home a night earlier). Well, these ballsy bitches rolled up to Casey’s house and proceeded to throw a keg party in the front and backyard, trashing the place before Casey and Co. had even crossed back into New York State. The police were called and restoration ensued, but important to note is that the next day my sister approached the main girl rumored to have orchestrated the unsanctioned bash. Their conversation went something like this:
Stupid Bitch Who Throws Parties at People’s Houses When They’re Not Home: Oh Raquel! I’m so glad you came over to talk to me! I was afraid Casey would never speak to me again.
Raquel: You WISH I didn’t come over here, trust me. I’m your worst nightmare.
This is where SBWTPAPHWTNH started to cry. Raquel finished the tongue lashing regarding the respecting of friendships and people’s property – all the obvious stuff. Coming from Raquel, i'm sure it was terrifying. Cause most of the time my sis just wants to chill and make bead necklaces and chat about Grey’s Anatomy. You have to do something pretty fucked up to get her juiced. You mess with the bull…
When you’re related to the girl, your chances of avoiding the wrath decrease. As we’re both the stubborn spawn of Mama Jones, neither Raquel nor myself is likely to back down in an argument. (It’s notable that I have always been at least three inches taller than my sister and I’ve never for one second doubted that she could beat the living shit out of me.) But now that we’re older and have discovered the advantages of cooperation and collaboration (“family dinners” on the credit card?) we’ve managed to curb the bickering and hair pulling and “nails” attacks - where you dig your grimy claws into the flesh of your opponent until they scream for mercy - to a minimum.
Now we just get drunk together**.
Tonight we're gonna do it legally.
**N.B. The last time Raquel and I got drunk it was on margaritas at some obnoxious UES frat bar. The next day, nursing hangovers, we woke up to meet Mama and Papa Jones at the MET. It was there in the first hallway of Egyptian pottery that Rachel said to me, "I fell asleep sitting up, with my shoes on last night." Through our hysterical laughter I could hear my mother call out to Papa Jones, whose face was pressed up to a glass case in curious delight: "They're just BOWLS Steven."
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment