Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.
It seemed innocent enough. We considered ourselves to be the Mayan Hall Dormitory’s First Floor Fun Committee. True, we were not elected. And true, the other girls on the floor didn’t appreciate our brand of fun. But by God, this was college, and we were going to give them fun whether they liked it or not. My college roommate (who would later become Satan) and I did have allies in our ongoing battle for the first floor. First there were Jessica and Tammy, who lived two doors down from us. Tammy was close with Satan and Jess always had my back so we were good on that end. Directly across the hall from us were Amy and Michelle. They were known as the Hispanic Sirens. Men would give their right arms, legs and any other body appendage to get near either one of them. Then there were the nature girls, Angela and Kelly. When I think of them I think of tan skin, fit bodies and Ugg boots. They were on our side and we were happy to have them. Rounding out our F-Team was Shannon, everyone’s favorite tampon, and her BFF Heather. Our rooms were perfectly placed along the hallway, with some girls by the entrance, some near the exit, and some right in ze middle. We had every position on the board covered. If this were a game of Risk, the other girls didn’t stand a chance.
The opposing team consisted of the following people: everyone else on the first floor. These girls wanted nothing to do with us. I can’t really say I blame them. Our floor had the highest GPA of any other dorm on campus, and I can honestly say it had nothing to do with me and my friends (hence, the “F-Team”). We tortured the smart girls ruthlessly. We didn’t do it out of meanness or out of spite. We were in college and were just trying to have fun. I guess we just watched “Revenge of the Nerds” one too many times. But let’s be honest. Live a little.
I don’t really know what it was that turned the other girls (The “A-Team”) against us. It could have been when we all got drunk one night and blared 80’s tunes in the hallway and danced our asses off in our underwear until 3 AM. Or it could have been the time we set off the fire alarm and snuck a highly illegal keg into our room. Maybe it was when Jessica and I jumped the fence to the outdoor pool and went swimming with the Cheshire Cat guy (He was in a tree, he had a joint, and he had an amazing smile. So he’s the Cheshire Cat guy).
But of all the incidents, I have to say that the tipping point was the infamous skirmish between Sir Mix-A-Lot and Rhett Butler. Our neighbors (A-Teamers) became obsessed with ‘Gone With The Wind’ and must have watched the damned movie at least ten times in a row before I finally snapped. I was so tired of hearing Rhett Butler coming through my walls saying, “I’m very drunk and I intend on getting still drunker before this evening’s over.” All I could say was that Rhett was a wise man and I intended to follow his advice. So Satan and I went and got ourselves some peppermint schnapps and a six pack. We proceeded to get very drunk and stage our own version of our neighbors’ new favorite film.
“I’m very drunk and I intend on getting still drunker before this evening’s over,” I said to Satan.
“Great balls of fire. Don’t bother me anymore, and don’t call me Sugar,” Satan replied.
“I can’t think about that right now. If I do, I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow,” I said, while taking another shot of schnapps.
“A cat’s a better mother than you,” she exclaimed, before slapping me. This was taking it too far.
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” I told Satan, and then fake-kissed her for the audience that had now appeared at our doorway. But even this got old, and we eventually resorted to classic psychological warfare: An endless loop of Baby Got Back by Sir Mix-A-Lot at full volume. Until ‘Gone With the Wind’ gets put on pause, or until we get busted. We got busted first, but we put the fear of Ugh! Double-Up. Ugh! Ugh! into ‘em.
The last straw was apparently the porn. I’m pretty sure most of the young women on our floor had never even said the word “penis,” let alone seen one, so Satan and I took it upon ourselves to educate these young ladies. Satan and I had been clubbing in L.A. when she and I stumbled across a gay men’s pornographic magazine. Not ones to throw away art, we took it home with us. We cut out pictures of the most “talented” men, and taped them to the inside of all of the stalls of the women’s bathroom. It was a work of genius. We did it under the cover of night so no one knew it was us. We had lookouts. We wore rubber gloves to make sure no fingerprints could be lifted from the photographs. We even drew mustaches on the men in the pictures to hide their identities. We made it back to our room in time to watch the Arsenio Hall show. Whoop Whoop.
What we didn’t know was that CSI was on the case. It didn’t take longer than 45 minutes before we had a knock on our door. “Ladies, I think you need to follow me to the girls’ bathroom,” The Resident Cop told us. See, every floor in every dorm at SDSU had a Residence Cop, and for the most part these cops were other college students. But not the first floor. Our Residence Cop was a full-grown, full-fledged, no-nonsense adult. Holy buzz kill, Batman. If you lived on any other floor and got caught smoking weed, the Residence cop would threaten to call the campus police. If you got caught on our floor smoking weed, our Residence Cop would have you arrested, fingerprinted and cavity searched. She would have completed the cavity searching herself, and I think she would have enjoyed it. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
So our Residence Cop proceeded to escort us to the girls’ bathroom. But it wasn’t the girls’ bathroom anymore. It was the women’s bathroom now. They had seen penises. “What you have done is not only inappropriate, but offensive, and you are both on probation. That makes two for you, Stacy.”
Second? What was she talking about? What the Hell? So I asked her.
“What the Hell?”
“First one was for jumping in the pool after hours,” she replied.
Ooooh, that one.
“Satan, this is your first. Both of you girls will have to make a written formal apology to the entire first floor for what you have done. And Stacy, one more complaint and you’re kicked out of the dorms.”
“But we didn’t do this!” I tried…
“I have witnesses,” the resident cop cut me off. I knew it was the Gone With The Wind girls. They hated us. They would pay.
So Satan and I wrote our apology note:
“Dear Mayan Hall first floor Women: We (Satan and Stacy) can sometimes be extremely loud and WILD! Because of this fact we understand it may annoy some of you. So we are making a formal apology. Although we do ask that in the future, if you come across a problem with our actions we would greatly appreciate if you would approach us personally. We would then recognize our actions and would seriously try and accommodate you. Thank you for all your cooperation. Sincerely, Satan, and Stacy. Room # 305.”
We put the apology on poster board, drew happy faces all over it, and taped it to the outside of the bathroom door. Then we took pictures of ourselves posing with the sign. I don’t think it was the apology the Residence Cop was looking for, but it was all she was going to get.
The next few weeks were quiet. At least for me. It was finals and considering I had no other place to live beside the dorm I had no choice but to drink water and study. Satan still got to have her fun, but I just had to make sure it didn’t happen in our room. I passed all my tests and finally contributed to the overall GPA of the first floor dorm. But there was no way in hell I was watching Gone With the Wind. “Great balls of fire! HICCUP! It’s Rhett!”
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