Invitation: Singles Awareness Day Party

You are cordially invited to Jimmie’s Singles Awareness Day Party!

 Official Party Itinerary

 February 14, 2015

Jimmie’s House

5:00 p.m. – 5:32 p.m.

Play Old Maid

5:34 p.m. – 6:01 p.m.

Arm Wrestle

 6:02 p.m. – 6:15 p.m.

Bathroom Breaks

6:15 p.m. – Until bellies are distended p.m.

Dinner of chicken, pie and biscuits will be served*

 When bellies are distended p.m. – Food coma onset p.m.

Play highly competitive board games, arm wrestle, not cuddle

Official Party Rules

No significant others allowed.  If any invitee has even a whiff of a love interest, even as small as a tentative conversation wherein a member of the same or opposite sex has expressed the slightest modicum of romantic interest, the invitation is hereby revoked.

So that we are not a group of sad sacks with cold, black, anemic hearts, I am instituting a cover charge.  Each attendee is to pay a single dollar bill or bring a single canned good item, all of which will be donated to the local food bank thereby ensuring that we love in action, i.e. with black beans and fruit cocktail, not in emotion, i.e. with hearts, flowers and chocolates.

*Several months ago I joined Costco through a Groupon offer which charged me the full price for membership but also gave me $20 in Costco bucks, and coupons for a free chicken, a free pie, and a free case of toilet paper.  That sounded like a good weekend right there, so of course I snatched that up.  Singles Awareness Day Party supplies for free!

P.S. Phranke has been invited and has accepted my party invitation. She expressed dismay in Pee-tah’s lack of invitation. “I really like him,” she said with some sadness.  See, Pee-tah is now officially Off The Market as he is loved up with a new boyfriend.  I, too, am disappointed but rules are rules.  This is the price Pee-tah must pay for being loved up.

I am hardcore.

Let me know if you are coming.  Got to make sure we have enough pie.

Reposted In Honor Of My Best Friend: Happy Birthday, Martie.

Happy Birthday

A million memories are not enough to cover the expanse that is sisterhood.  I’ll share a few today, in honor of one of my favorite people. 

I don’t really remember when Martie was born.  I was too little.  But I feel like I remember it because someone took a picture of us:  me sitting up in an armchair holding this tiny baby with gigantic eyes and a shock of black, explosive hair.  I was grinning like a loon and you can see someone’s arms hovering around me to prevent me from dropping her I guess. If my feelings about Martie now are any indication, there is no way in the world I would have ever dropped that baby.   

I remember when Madre took Martie to the beauty salon and had that explosive hair permed into an afro.  It was the cutest afro you’ve ever seen on a tiny girl. Her kindergarten picture shows a little girl with giant eyes and a curly mop wearing my favorite Winnie the Pooh dress that I handed down.  I love that picture. 

I remember having a fight with Martie in high school.  We were mad at each other (I think I’ve told this story before), and I was grandstanding in front of our friends.  I spit my gum in her face.  In retaliation, she went into the house, grabbed my purse, stuck it under the tire of her VW bug and ran over it a few times.   

I remember when Madre married Poppa and we got two brothers.  (Let me say in aside here that my family is complicated.  I have step siblings and half siblings and full siblings and four sets of grandparents plus some grandparents that we adopted.  But you know what?  My family is only complicated in terminology.  They are my family – full blooded, fully loved, full hearts, all the way.)  At first, the transition from three females living alone to six people living together, three males, three females (we were the Brady Bunch, sort of) was tough.  We had growing pains.  I had always been the peacemaker and the quiet one.  That was until one of the brothers took Martie’s sand dollar and broke it open after she expressly told him he could not do that. Her eyes teared up and as the youngest of us, she got trampled on a lot.  I couldn’t take it anymore.  I was so mad.  So I hit him, really, really hard.  And I think I knocked him out a little bit.  Apparently you don’t mess with my little sister, I don’t care who you are or how much I like you.

I remember seeing Martie’s face when she was in the OR and they put Pooh on her chest, right after she was born.  That is one of my favorite faces of all time.   

I remember graduating from high school and after I got my diploma, I looked up and saw Martie’s face covered in tears.  It was the end of an era – we would no longer share a room.  We would no longer share clothes.  We would no longer fight over the radio or the light in our room or our makeup.  We would no longer stay up all night talking about boys.  We never again listened to Thriller in our pajamas and ate giant Hershey’s kisses.  I was leaving for college and that moment, when I saw her face, my heart broke a little. 

I remember the moment that I realized that there was nothing Martie could do, ever, that would make me stop loving her.  Of course I probably realized it early in life but this particular moment was one that I could articulate.  Right then I called her. I told her that.  I told her that there is not another person on this earth who knows everything there is to know about me and loves me anyway.   I know everything there is to know about her and I love her anyway, love her because of it, love her because she’s Martie and she’s awesome.  I can’t imagine my life without her.   

I remember Martie calling me once.  She was so upset, so heartbroken.  Someone had hurt her badly and I remember the anguish in her voice when she said brokenly, “I don’t love a little bit.  I love all the way.  There is no little bit for me.”   That’s who Martie is.  She is full of life.  She does nothing halfway.  When she’s in, she’s all in.  It’s beautiful. 

So I say this:  I don’t love you a little bit, Martie. I never did.  There is no little bit here.  I love you all the way, as full as you can get.  A million memories for us.  A million smiles.  A million tears.  A million hugs.  A million of all good things for your birthday because you deserve it all, as full as you can get, and once we get to the end of a million, we’ll start all over again.  Happy Birthday, my forever friend.  I love you. 


Vegas, Baby!