I don’t know if you can tell from the general tone of my blog, but I’m not a Shiny Happy Person.
You know those people who are always cheery and friendly and super-duper excited about, say, the super-yummy lettuce wrap they had for lunch or their brand-new coffee mug that they love so much that they took the time to take a picture of it so that they could post it on Facebook?
Yeah, I’m not one of those people. Now, don’t be offended if you are one of those people, but in real life we probably couldn’t be friends and I’d probably talk about you and your annoying happiness behind your back.
I should mention that in addition to not being Shiny Happy, I’m also ever so slightly a bitch.
And don’t think I wake up every morning and decide to be unhappy. I’m not actually unhappy. I’m quite happy most of the time. But I’m not cutesy with my happiness. I’m incredibly grateful for so many things, but I think my high level of anxiety and OCD make it nearly impossible for me to be cheery.
If we met on the street, you’d say, “She’s friendly.” Then you’d get to know me a little more and you’d say, “She’s probably the funniest person I’ve ever met in my life.” Then you’d get to know me a little more and you’d say, “She’s really irreverent and sarcastic. I think she might be going to hell.” Then you’d get to know me a little more and you’d say, “She’s really weird and she’s definitely going to hell,” and then you and I wouldn’t hang out anymore.
My general weirdness makes it very difficult to make close friends. So, you can imagine my excitement when six years ago Virginia Slims Man walked down the street with The Good One and ran into a new family that had just moved into our neighborhood. They were our age and had two kids, so he invited them to our Super Bowl party.
Aside: That Super Bowl party was a fiasco of epic proportions. I feel certain that with the exception of Super Bowl parties thrown by Alcoholics Anonymous, it was the only dry Super Bowl party occurring in the entire country. Virginia Slims Man still describes it as one of the worst days of his life. We blame it on a newly alcoholic friend that was invited to the party and then a panic over serving alcohol and being a stumbling block to his sobriety. It was my fault. I have a tendency to over-think things. Big surprise.
Anyway, the new family walked into our house, and in spite of the fact that they just met us and were being served NO ALCOHOL at a Super Bowl party, they still chose to remain our friends.
The wife of the couple has been mentioned in the past on my blog. She’s the one I described as a weird Audrey Hepburn. She’s beautiful and elegant and has the neck of a giraffe (it looks good on her), but she’s totally insane and understands all of my insanity. In fact, she shares much of my insane qualities. She was once sitting on her couch and felt and saw her stomach move and was convinced there was a worm or parasite growing in her stomach. She didn’t think gas. She thought parasite.
You can understand why we became so close.
Over the past 6 years they have been our constant companions and best friends. We’ve taken vacations together, joined and quit fitness clubs together, celebrated holidays together and have spent nearly every weekend together.
It’s hard to find people you like that much.
Well, to my utter dismay, they are moving to Georgia. Audrey Hepburn’s husband – I’m going to call him Señor Tiny Junk – decided he wants to move closer to his family.
He’s really a girly wuss. Boo-hoo, I miss my family. Boo-hoo, I need to be closer to them. Boo-hoo, I want my mommy.
Sac up, Tiny Junk! You’re stealing my friend!
I should point out that I have never actually seen Señor Tiny Junk’s actual junk, but the best way I can think to express my general displeasure with this whole development is to emasculate him.
So from here on out we’re all assuming that he has tiny, tiny junk.
I’ve contemplated vandalizing their house. I already know I’m going to steal their For Sale sign. I’ll probably start taking walks in my robe while carrying a flask to scare away the lookers. I already wear my robe all day and carry a flask anyway, so this will only require me to walk down the street.
I’ll probably also tell the lookers horror stories about the neighborhood’s dry Super Bowl parties.
In seriousness, I’m going to miss my friend terribly. And in spite of Señor Tiny Junk’s sad, pathetic, miniaturized, microscopic, itty-bitty junk, I’m going to miss him too.
To Todd and Christine: You have been a huge part of our lives for six years. You have made living in Texas bearable. We have laughed more with you guys than with anyone in our lives. You have become our family. We love you and will miss you terribly.
God bless you in your new home.
Also, you suck for moving.
P.S. I wrote this blog post while suffering from either a silent migraine or a stroke, so please assume all typos are a result of not being able to see the computer screen through the lightning storm that was occurring in my field of vision.
P.P.S. I can generally handle two close friends at a time. More than that and I can’t juggle the responsibility. There’s an opening right now, so if you happen to need a slightly bitchy, very sarcastic, moody friend who suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and possibly strokes, let me know and I’ll send you an application.