We promised that if we got ten whole followers on Twitter (!) I’d explain how I am totally a “groupie.”
That time has come.
First, though, I encourage you to press play on this here youtube video for some mood music:
I am friends with a Musician who is Indie Famous. When I was in between apartments, he let me housesit his home for a few weeks while he went to one of his other homes. This was a pretty cool endeavor for me because I got to go to the middle of nowhere with a view of mountains, and I also got to dogsit, which was great. The dog and I were pretty much in love.
However, it was a lonely adventure, so I invited my friend The Cancer to spend a few days with me. There we were, sharing a bed like lovers do, feeling a little sorry for ourselves.
“Here we are,” I said, “sharing a bed, in my friend the Musician’s house, in his bed, with each other.”
“With a small dog at our feet,” she added. “We’re like an old lesbian married couple.”
I sighed deeply, somehow feeling empty inside, like maybe I was in bed with the wrong person.
The Cancer sighed deeply, feeling empty inside, like maybe she was in bed with the wrong person.
Rain fell softly outside.
The next morning we awoke, made coffee, felt sorry for ourselves, and puttered around the house. My Musician Friend has a habit of leaving his house unlocked, and we, as women raised by a culture of rape and fear, immediately locked the doors upon arriving. We soon outgrew this habit, mostly due to what happened next.
There came a knocking at the door and a frantic, “HELLO? HELLO?”
I opened it to find a lady in comfortable clothes, her sandy hair pulled back, looking shocked.
“The door’s locked!” she said.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m the A., the house cleaner,” she said.
She was very friendly. Although the Musician had warned me that there was a pool guy, neighbors with kids who wanted to swim in the pool, and various other people who may call or come by, he failed to mention the vivacious, talkative housecleaner, who I adored instantly.
And she set about at work.
The Cancer looked at me and called me a housewife under her breath.
“What? I am not– don’t even!”
Suddenly, A. appeared on the stairs and looked down at us.
“So, how do you know the Musician? Did you go to school with him?”
“Ugh, no,” I said. “Do I look that old? I’m not that old. He’s, like, ten years older than me. We’re friends. Our dads used to be friends.”
“Oh!” she said. “Oh! I thought maybe you were groupies.”
The word hung in the air like words that hang in the air– very big, sexy words. To be fair, there we were, girls in our early-mid 20s, standing around in short shorts and tank tops, looking all busty and curvy and messy-haired. I mean, basically, we could have been some guy’s dream come true– two girls, sharing a bed, feeling empty inside. Isn’t that some sort of guy turn on? (Or did I just insult every straight man reading this? All three of you?)
“I’m not a groupie,” I said. “Promise.”
I’ve said that a lot this year. And it’s true. But it’s sad if you have to tell people you’re not.
Now, please be a groupie and follow us on Twitter: @FamousBad