Have you met me?

I’m going to preface this post by disclaiming that I really don’t drink that much. Or that often, really. That didn’t stop one of my close friends from thinking I was wasted the other night. Really, I just suck at cover stories.

See, it was my friend’s birthday earlier this month and my roommate and I wanted to throw her a surprise party. To prepare, Roommate spent hours in the room, baking pie and lemon bars, cleaning, and hanging a sign. The place looked great. Unfortunately, during the decorating process, Birthday-girl (Amanda) knocked on our door. Roommate was on top of her desk, in the middle of hanging decorations. We were screwed. Our plan was about to be foiled, the surprise ruined. And it all fell on me to distract the birthday girl. For future reference, never let me come up with a cover story.

So, Amanda knocks on the door and I open it a crack – just enough to stick my head out. She already seems weirded out by my behavior – our door is almost always open.

“Hi?” Yup, this is going swimmingly. “Can I come in?”

I froze. Completely locked up. “No?”

“What’s going on?” Amanda wanted to know.

“Nothing? Amanda’s… you’re Amanda.” I even pointed at her. “Anne’s climbing.”

“Climbing or crying?”

“Climbing?” I say. Then I cursed myself mentally. I should have gone with crying. I could say that Roommate was crying and didn’t want to be disturbed. But then Amanda would be worried, so that was a no-go as well.


“I don’t know… She’s Anne.” That’s a better explanation than you’d think.

“Okaaay. Well, can I come in?” By this point, for the record, I had squeezed my way into the hallway and closed the door behind me.


“I mean, I could avert my eyes and just go straight to your room?”

“Yeah. Okay.” I nodded fervently. “That should be okay.”

So justlikethat we squeeze through the foyer and dart into my room. I giddily show her the picture of Donald Glover my mom had sent in my care package and we play some Mario Kart before she has to leave.

She arrived for her party at the same time as one of our guests. Luckily, she had forgotten her access card to the building and he could let her in. He played it cool, followed her inside to hang out for a bit, and didn’t blow his cover at all.

But she walked in, we all popped out and she was surprised. Success!

Roommate and I told her we were sure the jig was up when we wouldn’t let her in earlier. “Oh,” she said. “I just thought Molly was drunk.”

One thought on “Have you met me?

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