Yesterday, after I posted a musing about how Julie, my best friend from college, has EVERYTHING going for her, she requested one minor edit.

“This was cute, but…”

“Can you edit it to also mention that I’m hilarious?”

“I know I’m less funny now than when I was miserable” (Julie thinks she needs to be a touch “miz” to really tap into comedic gold), “But I’m still funnier than average.”

And, instead of making the requested edit (she’s offended), I decided to tell a Julie story instead.

If you happen to like country music and have heard the Kelsea Ballerini “If you go down, I’m going down too” song – it’s one of those tales.

Years and years ago, when Julie and I were still dewy-skinned lasses, we had a BRILLIANT idea for how to make the most of the summer between our freshman and sophomore years of college. When my mom and brothers went south for vacation, we decided to take over my childhood home and host a multi-day “Carney-val” celebration. 

The party (if you’re wondering) still shows as a public event on Facebook, home address listed and all. Oh, yoots. 

It also, unsurprisingly, was both 1) exactly as fun as it sounds and 2) exactly as likely to result in my mom murdering me as it sounds.

That’s where the, “If you go down, I’m going down too” element comes in.

Julie and I were smart enough to know that we DEFINITIVELY, no questions asked, had to be in a different state when my mom got home from vacation. So we fled from Pennsylvania to New Jersey, but we weren’t smart enough to leave our cell phones behind.

“KEELY MARIE CARNEY,” my mom screeched through the phone, “WHAT HAPPENED HERE WHILE I WAS GONE?”

“The trampoline is broken.”

“The front door was PROPPED OPEN while the air conditioner was set to 60 degrees.” (We’d already been gone for two days at that point, the front door to the house just wide open.)

“There are chicken wings IN MY BED.”

Then you heard one of my brothers in the background. “AND IN THE BATHTUB! Why are there chicken wings in the bathtub?!”

I tried to answer because, frankly, that one wasn’t on us. Julie and I had insisted that the only food anyone needed at Carney-val was corn-on-the-cob and I don’t know who disobeyed our command. Our friend Steve, who we kidnapped during the day leading up to night 1 of Carney-val was baffled by our food choice, but Julie and I insisted it made sense.

The list went on and on. “The neighbors say people were jumping off the roof onto the trampoline?!”

“Don’t worry,” I told her, “Only one person got seriously injured and we fixed her by laying her on my bed and feeding her chocolate chip cookies.” (Injuries supercede the corn-on-the-cob rule.)

“YOU NEED TO GET HOME RIGHT NOW!!!!!!” my mom seethed.

“Well,” I responded, “I will if you want me to, but I’ve already been drinking for hours” (we were at a different party in New Jersey). “In my opinion, it’d be very irresponsible for me to drive right now, but I’ll defer to your decision.”

I assume she just hung up. How else do you respond to that? (Side note: the police officer who insisted I crashed my car into a house a few years later was similarly baffled when I, with a blackout-induced goldfish memory, said, “I really don't think that was me. I’ve been at the bar since 10:00 am and it would have been wildly irresponsible for me to drive.” Spoiler: it was me. I went to rehab shortly after.)

When Julie and I made it back to Pennsylvania the next day, Julie was *quite* confident that she could charm my mom into forgetting she was angry.

Julie is, without a doubt, one of the most charming people on the planet, so I had faith. I didn’t ask what her plan was, I just walked into the house and followed her lead.

Do you want to hear how she handled it?

She walked into the pantry, got out the Bisquick, and started making pancakes. Pancakes, she figured, would smooth everything over.

But then, when she put them down in front of my mom and brothers, there was a snag. “These are raw in the middle!” my brother protested. “They’re not even remotely done.”

Which was funny, because Julie and I were halfway done ours. In our years of chronic alcohol poisoning, we were perhaps less observant than most.

Fortunately, Julie had one more trick up her sleeve: “Forget about the pancakes,” she said, Aries-entertainer mode activated. “Would you like to see my rash?!”

Julie, my ultra-successful, has everything going for her friend, tried to win over my mom, tried to make her forget about chicken wings in the bathtub and a trampoline that broke when college students jumped off the roof onto it…

…by serving her raw pancakes and showing her a rash.

And it obviously worked. Because here I am, still alive and kicking. And my mom, bless her, begrudgingly loves Julie and thinks she’s hilarious.

Just like we all do. So here’s your edit Julie: you’ve got the paycheck, the house, the car, the adorable baby, the good skin, the clothes, the charm AND you’re one of the funniest people I know.

Thanks for saving my life back in 2008.