Twisted Sisters

I am blessed with a lot of friends.  Some new, some old, some eccentric, some straight-arrow, most of them sarcastic, a few crazies, some puzzling, some peculiar, some confident, some lighthearted, one or two Sporty Spices, a couple of Lifetime/Hallmark lovers, a few more ESPN followers, some healthy, some sick, many are mothers, several are grandmothers, some just drive like grandmothers, but all of them are good people who are beautiful in their own special way.

Only a select few are in my inner core.  They know the real me and like me anyway.  They have laughed with me at my highest, laughed at me when I’m being my oh-so-graceful-self and cried with me when my world fell apart.  They know what makes me tick, and which buttons to push when I am out of sorts, out of line or out of ideas.


But my very best friend, my sister from another mother, is the sanest crazy person I’ve ever met.  Only she can keep me on the phone for two and a half hours, and keep me wanting more.  She will tell me the truth even when my sass and stubborn streaks don’t want to hear it.  She can boil down my overanalyzations and ask questions that help me find my own point.  We can laugh at nothing and make a lifelong memory of it.  We can pick a city out of a hat and make an adventure of it.  We can compare pre- and post-baby body parts with commiseration and lie to each other with sincerity about the appeal of loose skin, the sauciness of stretch marks, the sexiness of cellulite, and the best lighting to reduce the glare of winter white skin (in any season).

I hope you all have friends like my Ouiser.  She is the perfect mix of saint and sinner, wit and wisdom.  She is gorgeous from the inside out.

After 20 years of friendship, I still don’t know why she talks to me.  I have to be nice to her though, she has waaaaaaaay too much dirt on me.





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