So write I will.
Tomorrow.
Several things have happened as of late. Some of them are even interesting. But, those are going to have to wait until my next post. Because today's is reserved for one of the above-mentioned best friends (the first one). She turned the big 2-5 in January, and I promised to write her a fabulous birthday blog but never did because sometimes I suck at life.
Tonight I am making good on that promise.
So, you can wait with baited breath for my post tomorrow, which may or may not involve several life-changing events/decisions, but it probably won't be nearly as exciting or earth-shattering to you as it is to me. Instead, why don't you read about just how fabulous my one-and-only is.
That's right.
I said it.
Molly Elizabeth Page is my one true love. My bosom friend. My same-sex-hetero-life-partner. My BFF.
Laugh if you want.
But if totally digging her and all that she stand for is wrong....
Then I don't want to be right.
and
SCENE
SCENE
Dear Molly Beth-
On January 3rd, you turned 25.
Yes, I realize that this is over a month late.
Perfection takes time! What do you want from me?!
Besides.
No one taught me how to procrastinate like you.
For example:
You: Let's watch "Gone With the Wind"
Me: But I have 15-page paper due in two days. And my parent's are coming to visit tomorrow.
You: But...we should probably watch "Gone With the Wind."
Me: Molly, it's like a 3-hour movie. And it's almost 2 am.
You: So...do you want popcorn?
Me: Sigh...put the DVD in. I'll turn on the microwave.
Let me back up.
Three years ago, we embarked upon the biggest journey of our respective lives separate, and emerged from the fire of it all...together.
From the second we met, I should've known we'd be best friends. I didn't, though. I was too concerned about the fact that there was someone else in the house who HAD MY NAME. God forbid.
But you knew.
You knew when you came up to my room in 95 Cranbrook for the very first time after I had arrived, sluggish and bewildered from my 13-hour flight across the ocean, and you glanced at my bookcase, smiled, and told me "I think we're going to be very good friends."
Whatever.
Why do you always have to be right?
It's really annoying sometimes.
Okay, that's a lie.
If you weren't always right, I don't know where I'd be.
Wandering shoeless in the Mojave, no doubt.
You are, and have been since the day we met, someone I can wake up at four in the morning because I have to talk about something that simply cannot wait until tomorrow (I try to limit those calls to questions regarding contraceptives and bourbon-and-Coke mixture instructions).
You are my personal fashion adviser.
You are my personal psychiatrist.
You are my personal cheering squad.
I honestly can't say whether or not you do this for all your friends.
I'd like to think that I'm extra-special because we endured some hellish circumstances (that may or may not involve the dissolution of Dutch-American peace treaties...but that's a whole other story).
Something tells me, though, that you probably go through this with all your friends.
Mostly because you don't know how to be mediocre at anything.
Which is also really annoying sometimes.
Your intellect never ceases to amaze me.
In elementary school, I was often teased for using words that the other kids couldn't understand (true story...I kid you not).
When I met you, I met a person who could "out-word" me.
There have been occasions where I feel like an imbecile merely talking to you on the phone.
You can switch gears from pop-culture to classic literature to European politics in a matter of seconds, and not even bat an eyelash.
I just sit there going...."yeah! And...and... Colin Powell looks like Sydney Poitier! Kind of."
Do you see where I'm going with this?
Your brain is an amazing thing.
I can only imagine the things you will accomplish in your lifetime.
And may I just add that considering all of this, I'm really really super-glad I'm on your good side.
Your massive brain capacity aside, you're also one of the most fun people I know.
In retrospect, there are times in my life tat I have never laughed harder than I did when I have laughed with you (did that even make sense? It's 2 am. Plus I'm drunk. Okay, not really because I'm at work and that could get me fired. But I am really tired. So, did that make sense?)
You are an amazing storyteller.
You are an uncanny observationalist.
And more than anything, you know how to laugh at yourself.
It's even funny when you get angry.
Sometimes.
I love that our friendship allows us to get angry FOR each other, not AT each other.
Like, when one of us is wronged by, say, a male figure in our lives (cough, cough...) we logically call the other, probably while we're driving to Starbucks to drown our sorrows in a Skinny Soy Cinnamon Dolce Latte (say that five times fast. I dare you), to yell about the bastards (cough, cough...).
What does the other one do?
We get mad.
We get livid.
And then we plot revenge.
Most of which is not very well-thought out, but it's the sentiment that counts.
That's what friendship is.
And you taught me that.
Or when we're shopping (at Primark, of course) and one of us falls in love with a beautiful cotton top with a lovely cian-colored print on lime cotton and tries it on, but inevitably looks like a Three Mile Island refugee.
We can say that even a white Hanes undershirt (with pit stains) would be a better option.
Because if you look bad, then I look bad.
That's what friendship is.
You taught me that.
Or, when it's 11 o'clock on a Saturday night.
And neither of us feel like going out to a smoky bar again because we did that last night.
And every night for the past three months.
And one of us says "we should order Chinese take-away"
The other one doesn't say, "No, I'm sorry. I'm eating nothing but carrot sticks until I'm state-side again because all this gross British food is getting to me and if I don't do something about it soon I'm going to look like that whale that got accidentally trapped in the Thames (so sad, by the way."
Oh no.
The other one does NOT say that.
What they do is they suck it up, take one for the team, and say "I'll take chow mein and an egg-roll."
Because that's what we do.
And if one decides she also wants ice-cream after wards? The other one just smiles.
Because that's what friendship is all about.
And you taught me that, too.
So, thank you Molly.
Thank you for having the same name as me.
For loving books as passionatly as I do.
For loving movies the way I do.
For listening to me cry for hours and hours, over things I can't even remember now.
For walking to the grocery store with me in the freezing rain because I needed a bottle of water and there was NO WAY I was drinking tap water in that country.
Thank you for seeing London with me.
For taking goofy pictures with me.
For laughing so hard we couldn't breath.
For introducing me to the finer points of television shows about spies.
For broadening my fashion sense.
Thank you for knowing me.
For talking to me.
For talking with me.
For answering your phone.
For always calling me back.
For supporting me, no matter how many stupid choices I make.
For always being the person I want to go to first, for anything, because I know that it won't change the way you think about me.
For accepting me for who I am.
For believing that I can do all the things I want to do.
For wanting more for me.
For wanting more for yourself.
For being so fearless.
For being so patient.
For never losing hope or faith.
For understanding the world better than most people.
For understanding me better than most of the world.
On January 3rd, you turned 25.
Yes, I realize that this is over a month late.
Perfection takes time! What do you want from me?!
Besides.
No one taught me how to procrastinate like you.
For example:
You: Let's watch "Gone With the Wind"
Me: But I have 15-page paper due in two days. And my parent's are coming to visit tomorrow.
You: But...we should probably watch "Gone With the Wind."
Me: Molly, it's like a 3-hour movie. And it's almost 2 am.
You: So...do you want popcorn?
Me: Sigh...put the DVD in. I'll turn on the microwave.
Let me back up.
Three years ago, we embarked upon the biggest journey of our respective lives separate, and emerged from the fire of it all...together.
From the second we met, I should've known we'd be best friends. I didn't, though. I was too concerned about the fact that there was someone else in the house who HAD MY NAME. God forbid.
But you knew.
You knew when you came up to my room in 95 Cranbrook for the very first time after I had arrived, sluggish and bewildered from my 13-hour flight across the ocean, and you glanced at my bookcase, smiled, and told me "I think we're going to be very good friends."
Whatever.
Why do you always have to be right?
It's really annoying sometimes.
Okay, that's a lie.
If you weren't always right, I don't know where I'd be.
Wandering shoeless in the Mojave, no doubt.
You are, and have been since the day we met, someone I can wake up at four in the morning because I have to talk about something that simply cannot wait until tomorrow (I try to limit those calls to questions regarding contraceptives and bourbon-and-Coke mixture instructions).
You are my personal fashion adviser.
You are my personal psychiatrist.
You are my personal cheering squad.
I honestly can't say whether or not you do this for all your friends.
I'd like to think that I'm extra-special because we endured some hellish circumstances (that may or may not involve the dissolution of Dutch-American peace treaties...but that's a whole other story).
Something tells me, though, that you probably go through this with all your friends.
Mostly because you don't know how to be mediocre at anything.
Which is also really annoying sometimes.
Your intellect never ceases to amaze me.
In elementary school, I was often teased for using words that the other kids couldn't understand (true story...I kid you not).
When I met you, I met a person who could "out-word" me.
There have been occasions where I feel like an imbecile merely talking to you on the phone.
You can switch gears from pop-culture to classic literature to European politics in a matter of seconds, and not even bat an eyelash.
I just sit there going...."yeah! And...and... Colin Powell looks like Sydney Poitier! Kind of."
Do you see where I'm going with this?
Your brain is an amazing thing.
I can only imagine the things you will accomplish in your lifetime.
And may I just add that considering all of this, I'm really really super-glad I'm on your good side.
Your massive brain capacity aside, you're also one of the most fun people I know.
In retrospect, there are times in my life tat I have never laughed harder than I did when I have laughed with you (did that even make sense? It's 2 am. Plus I'm drunk. Okay, not really because I'm at work and that could get me fired. But I am really tired. So, did that make sense?)
You are an amazing storyteller.
You are an uncanny observationalist.
And more than anything, you know how to laugh at yourself.
It's even funny when you get angry.
Sometimes.
I love that our friendship allows us to get angry FOR each other, not AT each other.
Like, when one of us is wronged by, say, a male figure in our lives (cough, cough...) we logically call the other, probably while we're driving to Starbucks to drown our sorrows in a Skinny Soy Cinnamon Dolce Latte (say that five times fast. I dare you), to yell about the bastards (cough, cough...).
What does the other one do?
We get mad.
We get livid.
And then we plot revenge.
Most of which is not very well-thought out, but it's the sentiment that counts.
That's what friendship is.
And you taught me that.
Or when we're shopping (at Primark, of course) and one of us falls in love with a beautiful cotton top with a lovely cian-colored print on lime cotton and tries it on, but inevitably looks like a Three Mile Island refugee.
We can say that even a white Hanes undershirt (with pit stains) would be a better option.
Because if you look bad, then I look bad.
That's what friendship is.
You taught me that.
Or, when it's 11 o'clock on a Saturday night.
And neither of us feel like going out to a smoky bar again because we did that last night.
And every night for the past three months.
And one of us says "we should order Chinese take-away"
The other one doesn't say, "No, I'm sorry. I'm eating nothing but carrot sticks until I'm state-side again because all this gross British food is getting to me and if I don't do something about it soon I'm going to look like that whale that got accidentally trapped in the Thames (so sad, by the way."
Oh no.
The other one does NOT say that.
What they do is they suck it up, take one for the team, and say "I'll take chow mein and an egg-roll."
Because that's what we do.
And if one decides she also wants ice-cream after wards? The other one just smiles.
Because that's what friendship is all about.
And you taught me that, too.
So, thank you Molly.
Thank you for having the same name as me.
For loving books as passionatly as I do.
For loving movies the way I do.
For listening to me cry for hours and hours, over things I can't even remember now.
For walking to the grocery store with me in the freezing rain because I needed a bottle of water and there was NO WAY I was drinking tap water in that country.
Thank you for seeing London with me.
For taking goofy pictures with me.
For laughing so hard we couldn't breath.
For introducing me to the finer points of television shows about spies.
For broadening my fashion sense.
Thank you for knowing me.
For talking to me.
For talking with me.
For answering your phone.
For always calling me back.
For supporting me, no matter how many stupid choices I make.
For always being the person I want to go to first, for anything, because I know that it won't change the way you think about me.
For accepting me for who I am.
For believing that I can do all the things I want to do.
For wanting more for me.
For wanting more for yourself.
For being so fearless.
For being so patient.
For never losing hope or faith.
For understanding the world better than most people.
For understanding me better than most of the world.
I am a better person for having known you.
I don't know what I would do without you.
You and your southern charm.
I don't know what I would do without you.
You and your southern charm.
Happy Birthday, Molly Beth.
xoxo
Mol
Also, I love you.
xoxo
Mol
Also, I love you.
1 comment:
Is it possible to cry silently and so hard that you almost barf up a Jamocha shake from Arby's?
Yes, if you're me and you just read this post.
I love my best friend, because:
She only thinks I'm fearless. I'm actually scared to death most of the time, but willing to take the leap because I know who'll be there to help me up from the fall.
I can say out loud to her things that I haven't even fully admitted to myself.
After living with her for 6 months solid, I haven't seen her in two and a half years. It sucks....hard. But every time we talk it feels like she's just down the street at Sainsbury's on her way back with some ice cream and a trashy British magazine.
And because, it's easy for me to have hope and faith when I'm around her or talking to her or thinking about her; because she makes me feel like the best version of myself.
LOVES!
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