The town Foxy grew up in is a tiny speck about an hour from Chattanooga. The only thing that separates it from the speck I grew up in is that hers has a college. And better liquor laws.

The bar: Shenanigans. The pitchers: $6.93. Yes. That is not a misprint. $7 pitchers of Blue Moon and Sweetwater 420. The shitty beer pitchers are $5. Five. Dollars.

So it obviously follows that we spent a large portion of the reunion weekend at the bar. Everyone was marvelously friendly, and not shocked in the least by Foxy’s choice of dates. Apparently, lesbianism is no longer exotic. Everytime she pulled out a cigarette, somebody got all shocked, though. “Ohmigod! You’re smoking?!”

Seven. Dollar. Pitchers.

There were teachers to meet, and dorms to revisit, and makeout spots to sigh deeply in. There was lots. and. lots of talking. I did pretty well, considering my latent misanthropy. More latent at some times than at others, it seems. There were no bitches. Everyone was self-conscious about something. Nobody had an amazingly fabulous job, although the DA from Law and Order never showed. Apparently she just signed a new movie contract.

Seven. Dollar. Pitchers.