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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Yesterday, I was looking at a catalog that contains therapeutic socks.

Not just looking at it, but seriously considering the purchase of compression hose because, good gracious, I’m almost 40 and after cooking up lunch for hundreds of kids, my dogs are really barking.  So are my spider veins.

I went to a night club the other night with some friends and I wore a sequined sweater…and tennis shoes.  At one point, I had to step off the dance floor so I could clean my glasses.  Mmm hmm…go ahead and picture all of that hotness.

The bonus?  None of the skeevy men in the club hit on me.  Though, there was that elderly guy with the motorized cart who asked me if I was single.  I thought about saying yes just so I could get a ride back to my hotel room.  Note to self:  If you’re going to be walking a lot, don’t forget your orthotics.  Or, a scooter helmet.

But even though I paid for dancing at that nightclub with bruises to my shins and calf muscles strained so hard that it shocked me, I didn’t let it stop me from shaking my groove thing and having a whole lot of fun.

And, if that makes me consider support hose, then bring on the nylons.

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1.  You know how they say that everything is bigger in Texas?  They’re liars.  This is but one, tiny section of the most massive hotel I have ever seen.  Really.  Ever.

2.  Everyone from the south is just as sweet as pie.

3.  Which is probably because of the weather.

4.  Or, the whiskey.

5.  When you put hundreds of women together in one space, there is bound to be some crying.

6.  Add said whiskey, and there will be some massive meltdowns y’all.

7.  Old friends become your enemies when they keep you out too late and make you have so much fun that the next morning (really, the same morning) it will feel like your brain is oozing out of your right ear.

8.  And, there are razorblades under your eyelids.

9.  But, vendors handing out ice cream in the exhibit hall make it all better.

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On yesterday’s show Oprah revealed that, in 1963, her mother gave a baby girl up for adoption; which means Oprah has a baby sister!  It’s true.  There was a DNA test and everything.  A DNA test worth its weight in gold.

This is Patricia.  She is Oprah’s new half-sister.

Not to be confused with Patricia, Oprah’s former half-sister, who died in 2003.

Oprah, Patricia and her other sister Patricia, not to be confused with Larry, his brother Darryl and his other brother Darryl…

…are all the children of the same mother.  Her name is Vernita.

Not to be confused with Oprah’s father, Vernon.  Though, this is not really Oprah’s father, it’s just his bust.

Not to be confused with breasts.

And, just like that.  We’ve come full circle.

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