Birthday Wishes for GR - Old(er) But Good(er)

Happy Birthday to one of my most favorite people on the planet. I know this is two days after the fact, but you did not expect me to have it posted on time did you? No, you didn't. We have been friends for so long that you know the drill by now. But I did not want to miss the chance to tell you all the reasons (OK, some of the reasons) I love you so much and am wishing this year is your best year yet.

1. My brother still talks about when you would come over to my parents' house and do back flips in our front yard. I am not sure if it was the fact that you could DO a back flip, which is a cool accomplishment in and of itself, or that you were wearing your cheerleading skirt while doing so and he could see your underpants -- I'd bet 99/100th underpants, 1/100th admiration for the physiology of acrobatics. Whatever the case, you made quite an impression on his malleable little mind.

2. When my high school boyfriend and I broke up, you never failed to declare an immediate Code Red state of emergency. You'd enact drastic measures: skipping class and driving me to 7-11 (because you were the one with the car) to stockpile emergency rations of chocolate and fried salty goodness. Even though it was the 18th time high school boyfriend and I had broken up. That week.

3. How you refused to buy light bulbs for our ghetto-fabulous grad school townhouse, claiming that you were never there, therefore, "you did not use all the light bulbs up." Good argument - perhaps you should have been the lawyer? At the time, as I stumbled around in the dark, stubbing body parts on the few furnishings we owned, I wanted to ring your neck. I was, of course, too stubborn to break down and go to Home Depot my damn self. Now - eight years later - LightBulbGate makes me smile.

4. How you are the most warm, patient mom in the entire world. I envy that. Your girls are lucky to have you. I'll be sure to remind them of that when they are teenagers.

5. How when Ethan fell and gashed his head on the fish tank at school, you stayed with me on the phone on the way to the hospital and then offered to come over and staple his head so we did not have to wait at the ER. Only a very good friend would offer to staple your kid's head.

6. How you do not drink, but put up with me when I do (and then offer me a ride home).

7. How when we lived at the beach (when you DID drink), you would come home (tipsy) from waitressing at 2 a.m. and strap on your Rollerblades. Most people get a little buzz and come home and eat Doritos; you'd come home and rollerblade 40 miles to Delaware.

8. How even though we have lunch every week and I am fifteen minutes late without fail, you never get mad. You simply bring a magazine with you and then fill me in on all the celebrity gossip I need to know about.

9. How you are the smartest person I have ever met (K - you are a super-close second - no offense, but you know it is true - G is a genius in the true sense of the word). How you studied for your MCATs on the beach - in a bikini - while taking breaks to apply suntan oil and admire the lifeguards, then rocked the exam. How in medical school, we would study at the Renaissance instead of the library (yum - nibbly things!) and then you would rock the exam. How even though you are crazy-scary smart, you are still one of the most fun people I know and can make me laugh until coffee sprays out of my nose. Smart/Fun is a rare and incredible combination.

10. How you are so freakin' laid back: even when it comes to the "big stuff." I have a vivid recollection of studying in our ghetto fabulous house. You were upstairs, I was downstairs at the kitchen table. I heard gunshots outside - not an unusual occurrence in our neck of the city woods - but these were CLOSE. I yelled upstairs, "I heard gunshots - should I call 911?" To which you replied, "I am sure the police are busy - were the shots INSIDE the house, or just outside?"

Love you bunches - Happy Birthday to my favorite ditz twin.

I LOVE YOU - MY ATTORNEY!!!

This is what my new client yells at me every time we get off the phone. She is a little old woman from Namibia and there is a bit of a language barrier. In fact, she may be trying to say, "F--- YOU - MY ATTORNEY!!!" but that is not what comes out. In any event, it is a nice way to end a telephone call; I suggest you try it with the service providers in your life.

Deep Thoughts

First order of business: Facebook is my new favorite time-waster. A.R. - remember summer associate time at our old firm when the firm would print a bound copy of the incoming summers' profiles, with photos? And how you would annotate the photos and we would pass them back and forth via inter-office mail for hours, laughing and laughing at how witty we were, even though collectively we were billed out at over $500 an hour and should not be wasting even one minute of time in such an egregious and unprofessional manner? It is totally like that, but FUNNER!

Topic Two: My son was leaving preschool yesterday when he got a used condom stuck to his shoe in the parking lot. Don't worry, I boiled the shoes as soon as we got home - but ICK. Who the hell? In a preschool parking lot? Bet it was that little red-head tart from the Twos room, she is always wearing short little skirts and flashing her diaper when she exits her mom's minivan at drop-off.

Topic Three: I cannot get this song out of my head: "In her apple-bottom jeans ... with her Reeboks with the straps ... turned around and gave her big booty a slap ... "

1) Apple bottoms sound delicious, like a dessert I would very much enjoy with some cinnamon ice cream.

2) Reeboks have straps now? Really? I need some strap-on shoes. I have been known to trip and actually walk out of my shoes, as I trip. Straps would very much help my cause.

3) I, as possessor of a big booty, do not routinely slap it. Perhaps I should start. The next time I am in court arguing a point instead of raising my voice and gesturing, I will simply turn around and give the big booty a slap for emphasis. Booyah - opposing counsel! How you like THEM apples?!

Chocolate Day!

I was at the printer at work today when I noticed the office bulletin board announcement stating that every Friday for the rest of the month will be Chocolate Day. Are you kidding me?! I have NO idea what this means but can you think of anything better?! Maybe Free Pony Ride and Multiple Orgasm Day ... Hmm. I'll suggest that for the month of June.

The Laundry Killer

Dear Husband:

If you would like me to go on a diet, just say so. You do not have to shrink all my clothes in the dryer to make me think that I have mysteriously gained thirty pounds overnight. While I do appreciate your efforts at domestic assistance, I was nearly rendered unconscious this morning from lack of oxygen while trying to put on my underwear. I was also saddened to see that my favorite sweater and nice jeans fell victim to your sadistic washing efforts. The cashmere was donated to the pug puppy down the street and my sexy Seven jeans (one of my few pairs of non-"mom" jeans) went to our three year old neighbor. Of course, this warrants an emergency shopping trip in my future.

Love, Your (favorite) Wife

PS A friendly reminder: We are babysitting our friend's children tonight and it is raining out. That means that my original plan to let them run around in circles in the yard until they fall over from exhaustion will not work. Please be home at a reasonable hour to help me dole out Benadryl and line them up in front of the TV.

Patron Is Not My Friend

I am currently awaiting service for a restraining order. Yet another unfortunate event occurred during my trip to Florida. I drunk-dialed many, many people. Which is kind 0f cute and funny when one is twenty years old, but thirty-two -- not so much.

In my defense, I have a strong argument for involuntary intoxication, which negates mens rea, thereby providing a defense to virtually all serious crimes, such as overage drunk dialing (citation: Legally Blonde, The Movie). It was my first night in Florida. My brother, his better half and I headed out to dinner. I was still pretty mellow from the tiny taste of Ativan I had on the flight. Since I white-knuckle it on planes, I am not above purchasing some pharmaceutical cojones to make my travel a sunnier experience. The prescribing doc assured me that wine with dinner would not be a problem, if enjoyed in moderation. Moderation - got it. No problem. I can do moderate!

Dinner was enchanting - a little seafood, a little Chardonnay. After dinner, we all headed back to bro's place to continue the conversation over a little more Chardonnay. My brother retreated to his kitchen and returned with a glass of wine for me. Such chivalry! It tasted a bit off, but I just assumed that little bro buys the cheap stuff -- perhaps even my old college friend, the delectably portable wine in a box. I politely drank what I presumed to be my glass of Boone's Farm while we sat and chatted. Turns out -- little bro had pulled a funny and filled my glass with 3/4 tequila topped with just a splosh of wine -- he later claimed he thought I would spit it out and not drink it. Since I DID drink it, he and his girlfriend sat there while I consumed God knows how many shots of tequila and then laughed and laughed and laughed at the drunkity, drunk-drunk older sister. I assume this is payback for all those times growing up when my best friend and I would make him eat things like cat food mixed with playground sand topped with wood shaving sprinkles. In any event, he did not confess his backroom bartending until the next morning when I called him to ask why my head felt like it had been turned inside out. And what is with the fifteen voice mails on my phone?! Who the hell did I call?! It was like college hangover bad; except now I am old, so it was a hundred times worse.

So ... I went back to my room and was bored and lonely. My husband was not answering the phone and I felt like chatting, so first I went down my cell phone list. Once I had exhausted that directory, I called 411 for some reinforcements. At some point during this process, I called my college ex who now lives in Atlanta - I cannot recall whether I left a message or not - and then I feel asleep.

Later that night, I awoke to my cell phone ringing. I answer in confusion to a stern-sounding female voice demanding to know who I was and why I was calling her house!? Somehow I deduce who it is, introduce myself and ask (nicely, but sloppily) to talk to my ex. She asks WHY I want to talk to him and I think I manage something coherent like, "I have a brain tumor and just want to apologize to him." This does not go over well as the implied meaning behind my statement is: "I am sorry I ruined his life, left him distraught and therefore he had to marry you as a back-up plan. Now I am calling, ten years later, to atone for my horribleness."

Which is not really what I was getting at. At all. I have no delusions that he is not now fine or that he is harboring any smoldering feelings from a relationship that ended ten years ago. I have heard lovely things about his now-wife and have heard he is very happy; which is fabulous. He was (and I assume - still is?) a wonderful person and I cannot think of a single un-nice thing to say about him. Except perhaps that he now, in our respective thirties, does not enjoy drunken phone calls from slurring women he used to date.

Her response is to tell me that they heard about the brain tumor from one of my college sorority sisters. [Yes, I was in a sorority in college. Dear Internet, Don't let that fact get out. I will be disbarred.] But they heard I am now OK. I tried to explain that, in fact, I may NOT be OK and that is why I am now calling in the middle of the night! Don't you see? Very Important Discussion. So could I please talk to him now? At this point, deep in some vestige of my tequila-soaked brain, I realize that I was mortified and this should be over. Wife told me - none too warmly - that "she trusts I will not be calling there again." Seriously. So that ruined my fun.

You may be wondering what my husband's response to this debacle was. Most husbands would not be psyched about booze-soaked telephone calls to long-ago paramours. However, MY husband found it hysterical. He could not stop laughing when I reported the entire, humiliating transcript of events. He has put up with me for going on ten years now, so he gets an A+++++ for being the most patient person ever, with the possible exception of Gandhi.