A Toast to Steph and Scott

Steph and I met at orientation weekend the summer before starting college. We had both picked the same orientation to come to and we were both in the honors program. That and our age seemed to be all we had in common. I remember sitting on the floor in the hallway outside the honors advisors’ office: Steph had on her Doc Martens and late 90s grunge; I had on a cute one-piece jumpsuit. It was hate at first sight. I thought she was a wild child and she thought I was a goody-two-shoes. We had one honors class together that first semester and nothing changed. We couldn’t stand each other.

Second semester, however, we had three classes together. We had also both joined APO, a coed service fraternity. Suddenly, we were spending a lot of time together, and we began talking a little bit more. We learned that we had both had horrible roommate situations the first semester. I learned that Steph was very generous, sharing the snacks she kept in her room and her desktop computer, meaning I didn’t always have to go to the computer lab to type papers. That was also the semester she got me hooked on the TV shows Dawson’s Creek and Felicity, although not on Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, much to her chagrin.

Steph and me, spring 1998

Sophomore year I spent the fall semester abroad, but when I returned, discovered Steph had a room to herself and she offered to be roommates. That first semester rooming together we did all right. We were still very different in many ways. I kept to my 10 p.m. bedtime and Steph pulled all-nighters and sometimes I’d wake up to find her asleep with her cheek on her keyboard. We roomed together again the next semester, and it started all right, as we plastered every inch of wall space with posters and had at least 5 or 6 more on the ceiling. Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio, Joshua Jackson, more Brad Pitt. That was the semester we learned that we are much better friends when we don’t live together.

Steph became the fourth sister in my family of three girls and I became another daughter to the Cohen’s. She helped me through my parents’ divorce and was there when my mom remarried. Steph was there when my sister got married and when I got married. The third sister had a bet going with Steph as to who would be the first to get married, and, Steph, Emily wants her money! I know I can call her at 3 in the morning, and she can call me, and we have. Steph and my husband arranged for her to come out shortly after my second child was born, just to help me out, since we had moved away from family. And she was very instrumental in the beginning of getting my rheumatoid arthritis under control after my initial diagnosis. I was serving abroad at the time and Steph convinced me to come back to the U.S. to see a doctor here and get it officially in my medical records, also noting that different treatments were available here. And then after about six months she came out for a weeklong visit to kick my butt back into gear because I had slowed down so much after that initial onset.

We know where each other’s running shoes are kept, we know where the 2x4’s are hidden when we need to knock sense into each other, we know where the bodies are stashed. My six year old asked a few weeks ago about when Auntie Steph and Mr. Scott get married, if he will become Uncle Scott. I had her ask Scott, and he said yes. So, on behalf of many of us here, Scott, welcome to the family! I’ve listened to the end of many a phone call between Steph and her mom, so much that my sisters and I tell each other “Laku noc” (Croatian for “Good night”) and “Ya te volem” (Croatian for “I love you”). So, instead of cheers, “Zivjeli” to Steph and Scott!!