Hoards—ok, six—Wendys stopped by to say that they aren’t nuts. Isn’t that cute? (Except for the one who slammed me for not wanting to give my kid someone’s chewed-on sippy cups. I’m a member of Freecycle too, FYI. I also pick plastic bottles out of garbage bins to take them home to recycle—my boss yelled at me for doing this during a work function—so don’t assume I don’t care about my planet. Did you not read my letter to Dixie?)
Ahem.
Since the majority consensus is that Wendys are nice, normal, skinny people, I’d like to tell you about the craziest Wendy I knew and then we can all move on. And be friends. And drink from crusty, gnawed-on cups together.
(I’m kidding, Wendy!)
Remember my friend, Sarah? The one whom my dad thought I was running away with when really I was trying to tell him I was prego? Her roommate was The Wendy of All Wendys.
The Wendy was about 6 feet tall with Bon Jovi hair. I only ever saw glimpses of her buxom khaki bottom. To me, she was like Sasquatch. To Sarah, she was Satan. The Wendy hated Sarah. If Sarah stacked ice cube trays on top of each other, The Wendy would freak out because she said the dirt from the bottom of the tray contaminated the water. She smoked (i.e. inhaled carcinogens), but no, the ice cube microbes could kill her.
If The Wendy was in the kitchen making dinner, she did not want Sarah in there cooking. If The Wendy was about to go into the bathroom, she did not want Sarah anywhere near the bathroom because once, the wind blew a bookcase over and it made the bathroom door jingle while The Wendy was taking a bath, and The Wendy was convinced Sarah was trying to break down the door. The Wendy did not like her tub time rushed.
This went on for months.
One morning, as Sarah was putting her things into her car before work, she looked around the cute neighborhood in which she was a renter and thought to herself, For $495 a month, I can live with The Wendy. The birds are chirping. The kids are waiting for the school bus. I feel safe, and my commute is short. Life is good.
And then, from an upstairs window came the voice:
“You’re a LEEEEEEEWSER.”
Sarah looked around. She thought maybe one of the neighbor’s kids was yelling at a kid at the bus stop.
Then, louder: “LEEEEEEEEWSER. You’re a LEEEEEEEWWSER. LEWSER LEWSER LEWSER.”
The voice was coming from Sarah’s apartment. The Wendy had opened the window and was yelling at the top of her lungs. It was 7:30 a.m. Kids snickered. Parents waiting with their children looked away.
“Big fat LEEEEEEEEWSER. You’re a stupid LEEEEEEEWWSER. Sarah’s a LEEEEEEEEEWSER.”
Sarah moved out a month later. Sarah saw Wendy once in town when we were driving; she tried to point her out, but she looked just like this:
(Except that The Wendy was getting on a bus and not running through the woods.)
So look, I’ve only known three Wendys—four if you count the fast food chain—so yah, I was talking out of my ass about all Wendys being a little off. But experience is relative. And look at the source. I decided to give my friend my vagina for her bridal present. If that doesn’t mend fences you’ve just proven me right.
