So I'm on the phone with Barb, and we're both drinking. It's a little thing we do when there's nothing else going on. She's in Missouri, I'm in Minnesota, so we call each other up at a time when both of our cell-phone plans give us free minutes, and we drink and talk on the phone.
And Barb starts talking about how one time she went and visited this guy that I had dated, and he was reading her some of his writing and one of the pieces he had written was about me.
And her rememberance of it was that he described me as some sort of epic super-heroin, a cat-like force of nature. A goddess of potential mayhem and violence. He just says that because I kicked his ass in sparring. Repeatedly. Thoroughly. and with more enjoyment than a strictly sane woman would have.
And her response was that this was strange and new to her. To her, I was just Teresa, who could be sullen and moody; goofy and geeky; a tortured and lost soul with a bit too much drama mixed in to be taken seriously. I was her kindergarden friend who like playing cars with the boys and moved away and came back years later as a third-grade tom-boy cowgirl with a chip on her shoulder. The nerdy girl who smoked with the toughies behind the Jet-Mart across the street, and had lots of scary friends, yet never seemed to be scary herself. Who drank enough to be mouthy when it wasn't wise, but somehow managed to pull off an escape when trouble struck. Who got arrested on occasion, but was too embarassed to admit it outright and did detention for truancy rather than admit to larceny if she was dragged down to the cop-shop during school hours. Who showed up at school with spectacular bruises and more spectacular stories that no one really believed or listened to. Who appeared to make up as much stuff as she told straight, who covered under callousness and carelessness a sense of wonder and responsibilty.
I responded that if she didn't think I was a cat-like super-hero force-of-nature chick, it was probably because she had never been sexually attracted to me, and plus, if she'd never seen me as an epic heroin, she had probably never seen me clean a toilet.
Because me doing battle with the forces of disorder and chaos in a houseful of males is nothing short of the epic battle between Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven. And that goes double after a LAN party where you have at least a half-dozen men who don't live here, have been living on Little Debbies, Doritos and Mountain Dew for 17 hours, and want to get back into play before they get greased by a teenager who has more of a natural tolerance for Little Debbies, Doritos, and Mountain Dew than they do.
Barb called bullshit, as child-hood friends will. the subject changed, and we moved on.
And I kept my real secrets again. Hidden in plain sight from those who know me best.
Because you know, don't you dear readers...you're only REALLY dead...when they put you in a box.