The Williams Sisters arrived in Buffalo shortly after 9pm and found our hosts sprawled out in the living room, no doubt awaiting our arrival with bated breath. They tore their attention away from reality television long enough to give giant hugs and ask the requisite travel questions, but returned shortly after. We dumped the bags in our “quarters” for the weekend and headed downstairs to say hello to another pack of beloved weirdos, finding two teens and a breast-filled TV screen in the basement. Completely within the realm of what I thought I’d see. On the tame side, in fact. I love it there. 🙂
There are never less than 3 twenty-somethings living there at any given time. Add that to us, my friend and her husband and whoever else may be passing through for the weekend and it’s a built-in party. Within half an hour, we were settled around the kitchen table/counter enjoying a bottle of chocolate wine and catching up. I casually mentioned my self-appointed “90s Pop Culture Expert” status and was immediately deflated by the lady of the house. She ever-so-coyly brought out a game of Pop Culture Trivial Pursuit and quizzed me with random cards. I did not do well, my friends. Not at all. The only answer I was able to come up with was the message written on a stage-crasher’s chest during an awards show. “Soy bomb!” I had to slink away in shame and admit that I may have been a bit premature with my title. The business cards are already printed, however, so I shall remain a self-appointed expert and lie to whomever challenges me. Like all successful people before me and all who come after.
Aside from knocking down my bravado, the conversation between us not-so-youngsters and the owners of the house is usually dripping with sarcasm, word play, off-color jokes and whatever else pops into our unfiltered brains. Did I mention that I love it there? The pace of conversation around that table or counter is akin to Gilmore Girls banter. If those women were foul-mouthed and thought of nothing but the worst possible things to say. Having polished off the bottle of wine and realizing that we didn’t have any other social lubricant, we sent some of the menfolk to the beer store to bring back provisions. “Daddy Ford” and Jesus (our name for the lady of the house because well, she is magic) retired for the evening and us gen-nexters headed to the apartment above the garage to continue our reminiscing and drinking. Loudly.
The night ended with a rousing bout of “Trivial Pursuit Drinking Game”, where I redeemed my status and arbitrarily handed out drinks to my fellow players. We laughed, played pool (badly), darts (even worse) and celebrated with a high kick or two. Then we went to bed where my sister decided it was the best time to practice her fist-pumping skills. I did not agree.
I haven’t shared a bed (platonically. Ok…or otherwise) with someone in a long time, so I wasn’t exactly keen on the idea of sleeping rump to giant rump with my sister. It is especially interesting when she had just the right amount of beer to make her slap-happy, while I had enjoyed my drinking to the point of sleep. (Or I was just tired from the drive). Our ideas of what should happen when we retired to bed were vastly different and I just sort of stared at her while she shook the bed with her giggling and ridiculous dancing. I must have tuned it out and gone to sleep because I woke up to her staring at me and the smell of blueberries in the morning. What a weirdo.
We followed our noses downstairs to find Jesus diligently working away at a giant bowl of fresh fruit that she had set near a towered platter of assorted baked goods. (See? Jesus.) She pointed me in the direction of fresh coffee and put me to shame with her bright, fresh-face and chipper demeanor. I squinted a thank you and dove headfirst into my coffee cup until my friend descended the stairs to join us. We stayed in this unkempt state for a couple of hours until it was decided that we should probably go eat some chicken wings. In Buffalo, I only move for food. I’ll begin the next segment at Bar Bill where we ate the best wings in western New York. Get those jealousy glands ready!