Last night I visited Brookline, where Kristen and I finally met each other, because duh, it was about time already, considering we email each other oh, about 50 times a day and I am not even kidding with that number.
I also met her lovely friends Amy and Deb, who live in a vast four-bedroom right off Beacon St. We ordered greasy food from a Coolidge Corner diner, and watched the replay of yesterday's Sox / Tigers game while terrorizing the SGMB and IMing with Sam.
Kristen and I both agree that Sam is approximately the funniest person we've ever heard of. In our dual IM to Sam, I was trying to find something grammatically correct to express this, and I said "you crack our shit(s) up".
"Your collective shit, shall we say," responded Sam.
"Yes. Our collective hivemind finds you very amusing."
Oddly enough, both Kristen and I have decided that we are essentially the same person as Amy, (not to be confused with Amy) and upon meeting, Kristen and I became the same person, thus leading to the theory that if all denizens of the SGMB ever met in person, we would merely conglomerate into a 900-lb. combo-monster, Transformer-esque, but formed of organic materials and therefore far more squishy.
Several more beers into the evening, Sam shared with us some websites that I really don't feel at liberty to comment on for fear of endangering Sam's life, but let's just say I laughed so hard at the sites and Sam's running commentary as I read that Deb finally said, "It sounds like you're having a laugh-orgasm over there."
Overall, we hit it off. Which you'd hope would happen with someone you email 50 times a day, but still. Kristen said she was reminded of a line from Mer a while ago that if we all ever met, we wouldn't stop talking for a year.
One time we did stop talking was when the Celtics played their last two minutes and overtime against the Pacers, and there was a deathly pall indeed when Paul Pierce flagrantly fouled Jamaal Tinsley and Deb, now parked in a chair closer to the television in front of us, leapt to her feet screaming, "YOU JUST THREW AWAY THE FUCKING GAME!!" as Pierce left, stripping off his jersey and windmilling it, inexplicably, above his head.
I was going to have Kristen walk me back to my car after regulation ended, but...eh...I decided to stay and watch the end of the Celtics game, if for no other reason than hearing Deb holler "ARE YOU KIDDING ME GET THAT FUCKING BALL GET THE REBOUND USE BOTH HANDS DAMMIT" was giving me incredible insight into what watching a Red Sox or Patriots game with me must be like to an impartial observer.
It has only occurred to me much, much later how weird it might seem to some people that we were four female twentysomethings, one of us a stranger, gathering at random, our common language not nail polish or guys or clothes or even The Bachelor, but Boston sports.
"Beth decided she loves the basketball," Kristen told Sam.
"KILL HER NOW BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE," Sam replied.
I have a feeling, ladies, it's already too late.