I didn't pick her

Since beginning this blog, I knew I wanted to write about my friend Jamie. But each time I tried, I fell short.  I've spent many hours in front of my computer, staring at a blank screen, trying to figure out a way to explain what she means to me. How much I value her. Cherish her.

The word "friend" doesn't work; she's so much more than that. And the funny thing is, I didn't pick her. She and her husband came into my life as part of a "package deal" when I began dating their best friend (now my husband).

That was seven years ago. Throughout those first few years, we were friendly, but I wouldn't say we were friends. We didn't have much in common, to say the least.  After all, I was 22, fresh out of college, and still trying to figure out how to do laundry correctly.  Jamie, on the other hand, was four years older, married, and preparing for children. I remember thinking, "Wow. She is so....adult-ish. She probably irons things."

And I know she was thinking, "Wow. This chick has a lot of growing up to do." And she was right.

I can't say exactly when it happened, but sometime over the past seven years, something changed. I stopped simply looking up to her, and started looking to her. Big difference. She went from being one of my husband's best friends to one of mine, too.

I don't know how she expertly manages her many roles: wife, mother of four (under four), daughter, sister, teacher, blogger, and of course, friend. Her plate is full, yet she executes each role with such grace and love.  It's truly astounding.

Why do I love her? I love her because she's the kind of friend who asks me the hard questions and remembers the answers. The kind of person who grabs my arm when she's talking about something that she's passionate about, and makes me feel it, too.  I love her because she won't let me off the hook if I say "I'm fine," when she knows I'm not. And she's asking, because she really, really cares.

She's the kind of friend who worries with me. Loves with me. Hurts with me. Hopes with me. She's the person I go to for advice, for comfort, and especially if I need to process something - she has an uncanny ability to verbalize exactly what's on my heart. When my dad had to have emergency open heart surgery, she was the first person I called.  During surgery, she sent me hourly text messages reminding me that we were one hour closer to seeing him.  You see, she knows exactly what I need, sometimes before I even know it myself.

It's hard to imagine what I ever did without her in my life. And I didn't even pick her.

let's talk dirty

Words are powerful. Think about it.  They can spark major decisions, both good (Will you marry me?) or bad (Let's take shots!) They can crush you (Sorry, test results are indicating.....) or give you hope (It will happen. Let's keep trying).

Words can make you sound really intelligent.  Want to impress someone? Throw an "albeit" into a casual sentence. Stuck in a conversation?  Tell the other person that the conversation is producing an unbearable ennui. They'll be so confused that they'll stop ear-banging you for a second, which provides the perfect opportunity to slip away from your verbal rapist. 

But there are some words that I refuse to utter. These words are so disgusting, so vile, they immediately produce a little vomit in the back of my mouth.  My best friend and I have been compiling these very words in a list for fifteen years.   If you know us, you know "the list." Some of these words may appear innocent at first, but they're sneaky offenders.  Trust me. Try rolling them around on your tongue for a few minutes and you'll see what I mean. These, my friends, are the true dirty words. They are the grossest words in the English Language.

ample                

ballpark                   

blouse                     

bowel movement     

bush                        

casserole                

caulk                      

chunky                    

clogged
crusty
curdled
dallop
damp
discharge
dookie
dump
feminie napkin
hosiery
hump
insert
load
loaf
loin
lump
mammary
moist
Nickelback
nugget
ointment
ooze
orifice
penetrate
pimple
poo poo
puberty
pubic
pus
rouge
secretion
seepage
shrubbery
sloppy
smear
squat
stump
succulent
supple
swap
tube

any word ending in "ule" (pustule, globule, tubule, etc.)

Have I missed any? What words do you hate?

No place like home: My week in pictures

Whenever I tell people that I grew up in Detroit, they give me "the look."  It's a mixture of confusion (Detroit? Are you sure? Gee, you certainly don't look like a gang member )  pity (Awww, you poor thing. Did you live on 8 Mile?) and relief (You survived! You got out! You moved to Ohio, the land of plenty!)

And I get it.  About 90% of the actual city of Detroit is horrible. It is desecrated, burned, and crime filled. What most people don't realize, however, is that Detroit has some beautiful suburbs.  Just a few miles up the river from downtown, on the shores of Lake St. Clair, lies Grosse Pointe. It's picturesque, safe, and filled with country clubs instead of crack houses. It's where I grew up, where I still call home.

After I graduated from college, my parents moved 45 miles away from Grosse Pointe, so when I go "home" to visit them, it's often hard to see my friends all in one visit. Thus, every summer, I spend about four or five days staying with my high school friends in GP. This year, I chronicled it with pics.

Wednesday: The picture above is Lakeshore Drive in Grosse Pointe. In my opinion, it might be one of the most beautuful views in Michigan.  Growing up, I saw this view every day. I wish I could go back in time tell my sixteen-year-old self to appreciate it more. 

Wednesday: Ahhh, Boones. The Kool Aid of the 90s. Have you ever had Boones Farm Wine legally (read: as adults)? We hadn't, either. So, in the spirit of reminiscence, my friend Terri bought a bottle over to Andrea's house and we split it in little plastic cups before going out for the evening. Strawberry Hill, of course.  It smelled and tasted just as we had remembered it: a mixture of rotting fruit, sulfur, and rebellion. 

Thursday: This is my friend Cooper on our lunch date last week. Isn't he the cutest little guy?! He is extra-special for so many reasons, but especially because I love his Momma to pieces. Kelly and I have been dear friends since high school.  To me, Cooper is so much more than  just my friend's baby - he represents hope, faith and determination. 

Thursday evening: This is my adorable mother chasing Davy Jones from the Monkees down the streets of downtown Detroit (post happy hour) after realizing that we'd been standing next to him while waiting for valet.  Poor Davy. I wonder which is scarier: Being chased by gangs in Detroit, or a lady in a pantsuit? 

Saturday: Ahhh, the Fish Flies The sign that summer has arrived in Grosse Pointe. In case you aren't familiar with them, they're flying insects that hatch in Michigan's fresh water lakes every year near the end of June. For three weeks, Grosse Pointe is covered with these rascals, especially near the water. They're harmless, but they reek like rotting fish. Is it weird to say that I miss them?  They remind me of home. Here I am next to an ATM near the lake.

Saturday: On the last night of Summer Bender 2011, my parents dragged invited my brother, sister-in-law, and me to a reunion concert by one of their favorite 1960s bands, the SRC.  Apparently, this band was quite big in Detroit at one time, and they were reuniting for a special concert. Keep in mind, the last concert my family attended together was New Kids on The Block in 1990, where my parents were the oldest people in the audience. We owed them one. Talk about a role reversal - at Saturday's concert, my brother and I were by far the youngest. We went in with an open mind, but it was bad. Really bad. This would be the equivalent of my husband and I taking our kids to a Pearl Jam reunion tour in 2040 and then realizing that Eddie Vedder can no longer sing and sounds like a dying cat. We all left after three songs

So there you have it, my week in random pictures. There's no place like home.

There's a new man in my life

 His name is Bob. It's still new, but I can really see it going somewhere. He's totally into me, inviting me over to his patio after my husband leaves for work. I hope the other neighbors don't get the wrong idea. But they probably aren't too worried. He's 80.

I knew Bob was friend-material from the moment we met. He called me over to his patio and offered me a graham cracker.  He's a sharer, that Mr. Bob. And I know that sharers make good friends.

See, the best thing about friends is that there is a choice.  You get to choose what kind of people you want to share your graham crackers with, so to speak.   As little children, choosing our friends is the first important, autonomous decision we really get to make.  Our parents teach us to share, to be kind to others, and to make good choices.  Then, they set us free in the scary world of preschool and hope that we make friends who have the same values.  But what they don't teach you is what makes a bad friend. That, we must learn on our own, through experience.

It's heartbreaking when you realize that a friendship just won't work, but you learn to be more selective in the future, and you develop a  checklist of traits to avoid. My checklist is short and sweet. For example, I know that a friendship between us will not work if you are:

1) Overly negative

2) Judgemental (of me)

3) Anti-animal (Now, you don't have to LOVE all of them. I hate rats and possums (big rats), for instance. But if you are one of those people who makes the blanket "I hate all animals" statement, then I think you must probably hate babies and rainbows, too, therefore violating Rule #1. ) 

4) A home wrecker (My home, or anyone else's.  If you are ok with having a hand in ruining someone's marriage, then I am not ok with you. Trust me on this, our morals are vastly different, and a friendship between us will not work.) 


5) A Nickelback fan (Sorry, but if you're a Nickelback fan, we should probably go our separate ways right now. It's not you, it's me Nickelback.  The same also applies for Shinedown, Creed, Daughtry, and other variations of Nickelback.  Again, trust me on this. Our morals are vastly different, and a friendship between us will probably not work.)

6) Growing or currently sporting a mustache that isn't part of a goatee or beard. (When was the last time you saw someone with JUST a mustache and thought, "Hey, that guy is probably awesome." The answer is never. (Except my father-in-law. Family doesn't count.)

Yep, Bob made the cut. He's positive, likes my dog, doesn't try to hit on me, and he's clean shaven.  We haven't discussed music preferences, but I'm really hoping that he's decidedly anti-Nickelback...because I feel that this is the start of something good.