Every Thursday night of freshman year, my girlfriends and I would hooch ourselves up, blare music through Roosevelt 307, tuck our obviously fake IDs and $6 into our pockets, and hot-foot it to the bus stop for the riotous ride to PJ's.
(One of the girls who lived in between my room and Julia and Liz's used to hide whenever we played our going-out music. Sir Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back" was our favorite.)
Once we made it through the long line of over-cologned guys and girls wearing tank tops and black cotton cardigans despite the 40-degree weather (don't think we weren't in uniform, too), we would spend the next four hours at the all-you-can-drink special, flirting, drinking, and generally causing a riot. When Julia kissed the captain of the baseball team, she informed us, "That's something you tell your kids about!"
Those were the good old days, when PJ's was amazing and $6 could buy you an absolutely massive hangover and a few hours of being spilled on, bumped into, and groped by every single person at UB. And, if you headed to the back of the bar, a serious tonsil workout.
Ah, how things have changed.
Last Thursday night, my girlfriends and I hooched ourselves up, blared music through our Hadley apartment, tucked our IDs and $7.50 into our pockets, and hot-footed it to the car for the riotous ride to Molly's.
(The guys who live downstairs occasionally come up to make sure we're all right when we play our going-out music. Sir Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back" is our favorite.)
After Julia backed her car into and then parked on the curb, we made it into a bar teeming with over-cologned guys and girls wearing tank tops and black cotton cardigans despite the 50-degree weather (yes, us, too), and spent the next four hours at the $2.50-pitchers special, flirting, getting drunk, and generally causing a riot. Sara's credit card swiped a bouncer.
These are swiftly becoming the good old days, when Molly's is pretty good and $7.50 can buy you an absolutely massive hangover and a few hours of being spilled on, bumped into and groped by every single person at UB. And, if you tilt your head and don't pull away, a serious tonsil workout.
Of course, more than the venue has changed. We used to take the bus down and back, piling into all sorts of drunken nonsense and hoping none of the other passengers would puke before we got back. Now, we drive and have a designated driver or cab it back, because we were never very good at taking the bus. The last time we tried, the bus sailed right past us and we drove anyway. If you read my last column, you know why.
The guys we meet are different, too. They all used to be sophomore business majors who lived in Ellicott, or haughty athletes (not to name names, "Jay"), who we caused a lot of trouble with. Now, they're all 24-year-old UB grads who teach because they get the summers off.
Our daytime activities have changed, too. I used to lock myself out of my room about once a month. Now, I lock myself out of the apartment about once a week. Preethi and I no longer eat soggy Lipton Noodles because we were too cheap to buy measuring spoons and couldn't get the ingredient proportions correct. We eat soggy Lipton Noodles because we're awful, absent-minded cooks. And we've graduated from endless hours of watching Dawson's Creek to embracing "The Sweetest Thing" as a motion-picture adaptation of our interactions.
Along the way, Preethi's driving improved tremendously; I don't think she's been in a single accident since she rear-ended the old man with the neck brace on his way home from the hospital. Liz finally met the Sabres' Tim Connolly one night when we bolted out of SoHo and chased him down Chippewa. Julia spent six months in Italy learning how to say "telefonino" (Italian slang for "cell phone") and date three guys at once, including her boss' brother, without getting caught. I, in turn, have begun vacuuming more than once a semester and no longer think I know everything - just more than anyone else.
But despite how very different we all are now, consider this a warning: if sometime during the three weeks left before graduation, you see a bunch of crazy women in QT_ shirts causing a ruckus, watch out - because, as clich?(c) as it is, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
Photo: Meredith Forrest Kulwicki
