Almost one month ago, I met some friends for dinner.  There was Amy, Christina, Wendy…oh, and ho-hum, Ree Drummond.

Yes, it has taken me nearly a month to tell you that I went to dinner with The Pioneer Woman; the N.Y. Times best-selling author and one of Forbes’ top 25 Web Celebs.  You’re lucky I’m telling you at all, because I am wildly popular and busy.  Okay, just busy.

Ree was in town for a book signing and joined us for a fabulous dinner where we had a lot of wine and I drank Ree under the table.

Or, maybe she was just looking for the lens cap I dropped.

There were also cookies as big as your face.

And, then we went for ice cream.  Splendid ice cream.

We talked, laughed and took a bundle of pictures.  Like more than I took when my kids were born.

This is the one where I told everyone to make a funny face and the only person who heard me, was me.

One of the best things about blogging is how special it is to hang out with the friends you meet online.

But, the wine and cookies as big as your face aren’t so bad either.

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Despite the uncertainty that comes with having a child with medical problems, there is always one thing that is constant with my eight year old son.  We never know what he’s going to say or do.

Most recently, this has come in the form of him telling his sister, “I love you!  Sometimes.”  And, let me just tell you how much a 12 year old likes hearing something negative from her brother.  Wait, scratch that.  Let me tell you how much a 12 year old likes hearing anything from her brother.  If I got paid for listening to squabbling, I’d be driving a Bentley.

On one hand, I feel like I always need to be on my toes, but on the other I find myself appreciating the boy’s honesty and lack of couth.  It has to be freeing.

The other night, we had two other couples and six kids at our house when my boy came in the living room to tell me that his leg hurt.  I pulled up his pant leg to his knee, but he complained that the pain was higher.  He didn’t appear to limping or bleeding, so I told him we would look at it when he went to bed.

But, he didn’t want to wait.

Before I knew it, he had turned to face all of our guests as he said, “Hey everybody, this is going to be funny.”  Which is when I saw him reach for his zipper.

One thing I didn’t think I would have to tell my second-grader is that it’s not okay to pull your pants down in public.

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I am not the healthiest person you will ever meet.  I have asthma, migraines, sinuses that drive me crazy from October to May, some strange auto-immune stuff going on and, on top of all of that, I don’t sleep much.  I am a blast at parties!  Call me!

I’m halfway kidding, because I am a blast (I’m modest too), but one of the worst things about being sickly is that your friends have to deal with it.

Sure, last year’s swine flu/pneumonia/suspected pulmonary embolism stopped my husband and his dad from leaving for a weekend trip and my mom was the one who rushed me to the emergency room when my doctor thought I was coming down with my SECOND case of viral meningitis, but it’s different when you have to put a friend out.

Like the time when I got a concussion a couple of years ago and my husband was out of town or when I went on my annual girls’ weekend and ended up with a migraine that made me so sick that I couldn’t keep my anti-nausea meds down.  I’m sure that watching me get IV drugs wasn’t on my friends’ lists of things to do when they were away from their kids for a few days.

But, maybe all of this happens to me for a reason.  Maybe it’s to show me that I have amazing friends, or to prove to the world that there really are good people who care about each other; or care for me…same difference.

In addition to being a creative outlet, a place where I have connected with other parents of children with medical issues, and being the board off of which I dove into a new line of work, blogging is a bonus because it has enlarged the group of people who would drive me to the hospital.

Photo courtesy of Mishelle Lane

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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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