When I was growing up, my immediate neighborhood had a handful of kids my age.  Within one block there were three boys and a girl with whom I spent many a summer night climbing trees and playing baseball.

One of the boys was a good friend and I spent a lot of time at his house.  He introduced me to Monty Python and he had a one-eyed, guinea pig.  No, that’s not a euphemism.

I had so much fun at his house.  I played his keyboard (oh my goodness, NOT a euphemism!), we battled at bumper-pool and there was a time, or two hundred, when we played video games.  Geekdom rules!

Fast forward to high school where one of my best friends was a boy.  I hung out at his house so much that when he moved away for good after high school, I still hung out with his mom all the time.  She and I used to have playdates for my daughter and her granddaughter.

I had another really good male friend during college, a group of men with whom I used to work that I’m still close to and, of course, there’s my ultimate best friend…my husband.  He has been with me through highs, lows, trauma, drama, thick and thin.  Mostly thick, if we’re discussing my thighs anyway.  Oh, and blogging; he’s been with me through that too.  He also pays our mortgage.  He’s a friend with all kinds of benefits.

Every one of these guys are people that I could see for the first time in years and pick up right where we left off.  There is no judging each other about the way we look, or what kind of moms we are, or feeling guilt because our house isn’t clean and theirs is, and they’re the head of the PTO and just made a craft and cupcakes and let their daughter have a slumber party where Supermom blended up cauliflower and put it into the punch, but the kids don’t even know they’re drinking vegetables!  Men don’t care.  I’m pretty sure they’re lacking the superficiality gene.  Because, there totally is one.

I am lucky that I have a husband who trusts me and understands that I like beer and football as much as I like home decorating and flowers.  He has a girl-friend (that’s a friend, who’s a girl) who goes to hockey games with him, because she loves hockey.  I don’t.
 
I feel more comfortable that he’s hanging out with her than with a lot of guys I know.  No offense, fellas.

And, if you are offended and feel like you need to argue that men and women can’t be friends, then me and my male, blogging bestie will take you down.  That’s right.  Downtown, Buster Brown.

Photo courtesy of Angry Julie.  Word.

Either that, or I’ll squish you with my chin(s).

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