Shining the Spotlight On.....Wendy (because isn't it there anyway?)

This is the 2nd installment in my "Shining the Spotlight On" Series and it was with great contemplation that I chose Wendy. You see, I take these series very seriously and I need to have something worth shining the spotlight on in order to feel inspired enough to put pen to paper (symbolically speaking). But with Wendy's recent graduation from the MBA program at University of Delaware, I felt this was the perfect time to hit the on switch on my spotlight and tell her story.

Wendy Gable was born in South Jersey and spent much of her youth in the orchards of the greater Bridgeton area frolicking with a core group of friends that she remains close with today. I must say this is one of things I admire most about Wendy; her deep rooted ties with people she's known her entire life. I have kept in touch with almost no one from my youth except through Facebook and that's only been in the last 2 years. But Wendy and her Jersey friends have continued to be an integral part of each others lives, sharing life's ups and downs.

I first met Wendy in the mid-90's while I was bartending at the Kennett Square Inn (a recurring theme for this series no doubt). And as many of you know, I did not like her. Night after night, Wendy and her friend Mary would come at sit at my bar and Wendy would whine and drink and give out way TMI (and this was even before we were abbreviating such things) about her life. And her voice got on my nerves. I don't know why,  because I can no longer hear whatever it was all those years ago that drove me crazy about it. But it did. So I, at best, tolerated Wendy.

I lost track of Wendy for a few years because, quite frankly, I wasn't that interested in where she was. It was in the summer of  '00 that I ran into Wendy once again at the Kennett Square Inn. I was in the middle of a personal crisis and Wendy interrupted it without so much as a glance my way (shocking). I had spent the evening having a meltdown as my marriage crumbled and was crying my eyes out to Steve Warner, the owner of the Kennett Square Inn, when Wendy plopped herself down at the table and asked if she could become a bartender. Now I listened to this exchange and thought to myself  "Clearly, Steve will see this girl is crazy and tell her to pound sand." But instead he offered her a job and told her to come in the following Monday (or Tuesday). And she agreed. And when she walked away, I said to Steve, "You are not really going to let her bartend here, are you?" Steve replied, "Why? Wendy's great." And I said "Whatever" and went back to my crumbling life.

Fast forward to the next week and I go walking into the Kennett Square Inn to get dinner, feeling sorry for myself again. As I round the corner into the bar, I see a nervous Wendy standing behind the bar. I also see the manager at the time motion Wendy over to her and whisper something. Years later, I come to find out that the manager had been warning Wendy that I was nothing more than a plant that Steve paid (in a variety of currencies) to watch the goings-on of the Inn while he was away. Apparently, Steve and I were engaged in a hot and heavy love affair that was so hot and heavy neither of us even knew it was going on.

Because I was disinterested and depressed in general, I didn't pay much attention to Wendy until she came over, looking all nervous trying to find a bottle of liquor. Now, since I was a paid plant, I knew where this bottle was. But I wasn't really sure I wanted to tell Wendy. Maybe I wanted her to squirm. But after about 30 seconds, it was clear this girl was like a deer in the headlights when it came to bartending. And so I preceded to spend the next 3 hours training the girl with the annoying voice on how to make a vodka tonic.

Over the course of the next few months, I spent every week at the Inn teaching Wendy how to make a drink, fluff a trash bag and cut fruit. And then after a period of time, on occasion, Wendy and I would actually have a drink together. By the fall, I had struck up a friendship with Wendy's friend, Mary and by default, the three of us started hanging out together. 3 single ladies in the big city.

In January of 2001, I packed up all of my stuff out of my dream house in Oxford and moved it into a studio apartment in one of the Warner Brother's investment properties, 131 East State Street (or as we liked to call it The Estates). And as my friends helped me move my furniture into my studio through a sliding glass window that lead out to the porch, Wendy came walking down the fire escape (or as we liked to call it "the fire escape of life") next to my apartment. Because while I started my life over in a studio apartment, Wendy was well established in the spacious 2 bedroom next door.

Now, this period of my life, while sad in so many ways, marked some of the most memorable fun moments I had ever had. And all of that fun involved Wendy. I mean, lets face it, Wendy is fun. We were 30 years old and we were having a ball. We dated losers, we drank too much, we smoked too much and we spent hours analyzing all of it. We spun elaborate tales about wheels of cheese and ice cream covered in bread. We inserted ourselves into other people's drama just to make things interesting (although neither of us ever crashed a graduation party, guns ablazin'). We had Seinfeld moments, my favorite of which is getting trapped behind her Pap-pap's sleeper sofa as it sprung open when we tried to move it down the hall.

So, its 9 years later and Wendy and I have survived September 11, me having a baby, failed relationships, deaths of family and friends, multiple moves, arguments, the Blizzards of 2010, graduate school and a host of other curve balls life throws at you over the course of a person's life. And we've gotten on each others nerves and told each other the way it was when neither of us wanted to hear it. But unlike the men, the moves and the curve balls that have come and gone, our friendship still remains. Because sometimes, when God slams a door in your face, He leaves your friend in the room with you.