May I call you that?
Well, I'm going to call you that anyway (fully aware that a significant number of you may actually be my mortal enemies.)
I was ruminating on our collective friendship the other night when it dawned on me that it's hard being my friend. On you, I mean.
First of all, if I love you, I'll call you on the phone. You may rest assured that the more I love you, the more inappropriate the hour it will be when I call. 10pm? I don't even apologize (see: Love Story.) 11pm? I am smitten with you. 1:45am? We must be related or you are Tiffany. 3:15am? Your name is at the top of the list to take my kids in case of an unfortunate event. 7:00am? You are a friend I adore with small children.
I bet you think I look up eight dollar words just for my blog, I don't. I really do speak this way (only with far more hand gestures and rolling of eyes.) I'm thinking of handing out dictionaries for Christmas and the High Holidays this year. Requests have been made. It's both annoying, and I like to think endearing, to be my friend and have to reference Webster for even menial conversations. I should have an app developed.
I'm a difficult mother, too. El Guille has his heart set on acquiring a dreamcatcher. He is under the impression, guided by my cousin E, that a dreamcatcher would relieve him of nightmares. We are not Ojibwe, not even a little bit (nor am I On My Way*.) I associate dreamcatchers with our cultural tradition of taking only pieces of other people's actual cultures, stripping them down to simplified, meaningless artifacts, and then mass marketing those hollow symbols to the rubes fooled into thinking they are participating in an ancient tradition. Wrong. I tried to explain this all to E.G., but he appeared unconvinced and slightly bored. So I signed him up for The Weekly Worker. I hope to start his lessons on the patriarchy by Tuesday.
I invite you, gentle reader and put-upon friend, to inform me how have I aggrieved you with my love.
Was it with my refusal to eat Cakesters? That I turned up my nose at your 100 Calorie Snack Pack? When I sniffed that you ought to consider a more deliberate hair care routine? How I lovingly suggested that you remove that apostrophe in "it's" to turn it into the possessive which you so obviously intended?
Do tell. I'll even submit it straight to the Jet Set Desk** for immediate perusal.
*Obscure pop culture references are common hazards.
**Now an actual location.
Thursday, July 16, 2009