Every boo goes through an evolution of sorts in her lady bromance. You go from primordial boos, to early/primitive boos, to upright-walker kind of boos. I used to be in the upright camp, having conquered ominous trees in cute-as-fuck small towns, a biblical plague and a homicidal mouse in a mansion of horrors (#LivermoreNeverForget), and the writing of a soon-to-be cult classic young adult novel, all with my partner in crime. Together, I thought we’d seen it all, done it all, and ate it all; I thought I was already the most evolved boo I could possibly be; I thought we had arrived.
But last year, I suddenly got called up to the big leagues (yeah, the extended evolution metaphor is over; it’s time for the metaphor vaguely related to baseball, about which I know nothing). Last year, my then newly-engaged best boo stared at me puckishly across the table at brunch and asked, “Boo…will you be my maid of honor?” And so I dove head-first, grinning like a buffoon, into my year-long evolutionary journey (never mind, that metaphor’s sticking, apparently) from a Maid of Honor, or a MoH, to a towering, majestic, “do what the bride says or I’ll hang you from a tree by your useless, pathetic intestines while a pack of starving wolves circle you maniacally!” MoH-FO: Maid of Honor – Fuck Off!
The differences are subtle, but undeniable: a MoH does what she’s told, but a MoH-FO anticipates your needs; a MoH will offer her shoulder when you’re stressed about the incompetence of LITERALLY EVERYONE, but a MoH-FO will repeatedly and unrelentingly harass everyone out of the dark assholes they’re hiding in until they do their goddamn jobs; a MoH will cry as you walk down the aisle, but a MoH-FO will cry the ugliest and most uncontrollable of ugly-cries like an abandoned third-world orphan. Anywhere. Any time. At random intervals. For no distinguishable reason whatsoever. Like this:
I started by ignoring the incessant tapping of the guy in the cube near me at work. He taps his leg so often and so loudly that it typically distracts me from my work and makes me want to fantasize about pushing his cubicle wall on top of him, crushing him like a little grape, and using what’s left to make wine.
But not today! Today I took a deep breath and continued working until he eventually stopped or my brain tuned him out. Not bad.
There’s this thing I like to call, “The Birthday Cycle of Shame.”
It happens every year and it all starts around November, three months before my glorious day of birth (I’ve been petitioning for years to have it named a national holiday, but those government schmos just don’t seem to get the importance). The impending gluttonous glory of Thanksgiving inevitably gets me thinking something along the lines of, “FOOOOOOOOD! HOLIDAY ALL ABOUT FOOOOOOOOD!” and because I am the kind of person who takes the phrase “consumption overkill” (which I’m pretty sure is something I just made up – spread the word, guys!) to a whole new level, the genius of such a holiday will get me thinking about the next day-long – and sometimes weekend-long – excuse I have to eat my entire weight in fried stuff, cheesy stuff, and chocolate (Jayne’s Three Basic Food Groups for Optimal Survival in the Modern World): My birthday.
“I WILL HAVE A TEN LAYER CHOCOLATE CAKE!” I’ll think wildly, grinning like a fool with gluttonous glee. “AND THERE WILL BE A MAC N CHEESE FOUNTAIN!” And then, after months of texting T all kinds of increasingly fanatical ideas like this, I’ll finally hit my birthday month. And that’s when this feeling of impending doom starts.
Man, that was a long nap. Can’t believe no one woke us up.
So, why were we hibernating and what happened while we were in the great metaphorical cave?
Well, first of all, I got a new job–which means a lot of walking around in downtown San Francisco and pretending like I’m going somewhere very important while I’m really trying to get to the nearest bakery for some post-lunch cookie action.
But mostly it means less opportunities for bromance, which is why Jayne and I have taken drastic measures to increase our bromance quotient by implementing Sunday night dinners.
Oh, and I got engaged, which means I have naturally saddled Jayne with the responsibility of being the Maid of Honor–a job she is performing so well I think this may be where her warlord career starts. I think bridesmaids everywhere suddenly felt an unnatural chill when Jayne accepted her new position of power.
Then, of course, came our birthdays. Jayne threw me a surprise dinner, which was actually the first time anyone’s given me a surprise party of any kind, and it was AWESOME. And not just because we ordered like 3 different kinds of dessert.