Recently, I was chatting with my daughter and son-in-law, (well, I was chatting, a lot, because I had two vodka and cranberries), commending them on their relationship.
“You’re so lucky you found each other. And you were friends first, which is so important.”
They both stated in unison: “We’re best friends.”
I said: “That’s amazing. I mean, your father is my FRIEND, I guess … but BEST? Not sure about that. “
My daughter said: “Shouldn’t your husband be your best friend?”
Me: “Um. No.”
“Well then, who’s your best friend?”
I thought for several minutes. I have a nice, tight circle of best friends. These are the comrades who I know would drop everything and give me a kidney if I needed one. And, after the third drink that night, I may have to ask one of them for a liver. It would be hard to choose one best friend, but the one I’ve had since fifth grade is my friend Denise.
Landing in the same fifth grade class by chance, we immediately noticed a similar streak in each other that makes everyone else uncomfortable: Super Bold. As my mother would say to describe us, after we were thrown out of the Wyoming Theater for the second time: “You two are filled with piss and vinegar. Also, you’re grounded. No listening to your 8 tracks for a week.”
Piss and vinegar? Not sure I quite completely understood that hyperbole, but I caught her vibe. And, joke was on her, because I still had my portable radio under my pillow.
Denise and I paired-up on too many shenanigans to list here; and it’s important to note, each time I was grounded, my partner was she. Coincidence? Not one bit. She was a stinker. She still is. And she is, by far, my very best, most animated audience member. I cannot find anyone else in this whole universe who laughs with me until our knees, quite literally, buckle.
When we were in seventh grade, we both had speaking parts in a Memorial Day program. She giggled through her entire speech, which was about dead soldiers. Sadly, her giggles are so contagious that I catch them, like mono. The more she laughed the more I shrieked, and our teacher took each of us by our left and right ear and threw us into the principal’s office. Good. Times. It was always best to be punished as a duo. It still is.
We grew, we married, we procreated. The geographical distance between us was no barrier for our two-hour conversations ranging on topics from colic (rhymes with ‘alcoholic’, ironically) to the fact I thought an episiotomy was a French sandwich. It’s not, and I still can’t sit properly. Nothing, and I mean, nothing, has ever been an untouchable subject.
Denise is that ride-or-die friend, who, when you call and ask: “Can you do me a favor?”, she will never say: “What is it?” but always answer: “Anything.”
She has held my hand through a coma, a pre-mature baby, my mother’s death, cancer, accidents, and most importantly, carbohydrate overloads.
That’s how you know you have a friend who will share a double suite with you in the assisted living facility. That’s how you know while in that room she will throw her loaded diaper at the wall and we will laugh until our walkers buckle. We will speak about dead friends and cackle inappropriately. And when she asks me for a favor, which will be to plot an escape, I will consistently answer: “Anything.” She will always be my cookie, Denise.
