Seventeen years is a long, long time to be friends with someone. Do you know how many bad haircuts and bad fashion decisions and bad boyfriends make up a seventeen-year friendship? So. Damn. Many.
I drive an hour to work and an hour home and sometimes when the endless line of red brake lights stare me down or the weather's particularly shitty, I think, this is just awful, but then I call her up and she talks me down and I think, this isn't so awful.
She's my son's godmother, and oooooh I want her to love him, adore him, find him HILARIOUS more than any other person finds him HILARIOUS because her opinion is right up there with Veronica Mars. Her opinion MATTERS, people.
She lets me be irrational even though irrational is not a setting she finds tolerable with many people. She answers every single call I make to her, even if she's at a loud bar or a loud football game or napping or just not in the mood to talk. I think that's the epitome of our friendship right there: we are so different, we are so opposite, but she always picks up.
I wasn't in a great place the other night for a million reasons, and I wasn't very nice to Mike when I called him about not being in such a great place, so he tip-toed in the house, with a bottle of champagne in hand to try and make me feel better. I laughed and smiled and thanked him, and he said, "You seem better." "I talked to Natalie." "Oh, I hoped you would."
I like to say I don't wish much for my son because I'm just along for the ride. He can love who he wants to love and work where he wants to work and live where he wants to live and I'll just be over in the corner, bedazzling signs in support of him. But, see, there's this little bit of hope that's bubbled up since having him, and it's this:
I hope he finds his own Natalie.
Seventeen years. More than half my life. We've fought like crazy. We've called each other names. We've cried and lied and screamed and rolled our eyes. We've disagreed and crossed our arms and been frustrated. But, I will be friends with her as long as I live.
Natalie's 29 today. She's a whopping five days older than me, that ancient-y, wither-y woman. She hates attention and by this point she's all, "Fuck, Jennie, wrap it up." Except she'd never say fuck so casually.
And when I call her to tell her about this post, she'll laugh, roll her eyes, and say, "Oh Jennie." But only after she picks up.
Happy birthday, Nat Attack.
(Since I've written about her a gazillion times by now and convinced her to write for me at Food Lush, would you be so nice as to wish her a happy birthday, too? It'll embarrass her enough to be totally worth it for me.)