I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship lately.

I reconnected over the weekend with a friend I thought I’d lost. And then I found out I had lost a friend I was looking forward to having. And with the dearth of posts memorializing Laura, one thing stuck out to me - a quote on Mel’s site:

“My friend, if I could give you one thing, I would wish for you the ability to see yourself as others see you. Then you would realize what a truly special person you are.” - Anonymous

And I wanted to take a moment to reflect on friendship in my own life.

My friends constantly amaze me with the relationships we share. I’ll be the first to admit that between the ages of 16 and 23 I was that girl who figured spending all her time with her boyfriend, and sharing his friends, was enough. I had few friends of my own, and pretty much sucked at building any sort of meaningful interpersonal relationships based solely on my own merits.

This meant I would cycle through circles of friends whenever I would change boyfriends. It’s what made breakups so unbearable, and why I was never single.

However, toward the end of my relationship with my last boyfriend, something changed. I had been working with a group of incredible people who didn’t know my boyfriend - they just knew me, and loved me for who I was. And although life’s carried us in a few different directions, we’re all still incredibly close.

In the couple years since then I’ve met more fabulous people and built up friendships, the likes of which I haven’t enjoyed since I was 5 or 6. Back in the days when you didn’t need a reason to knock on your neighbour’s door and ask if he or she wanted to go out and play. You just did. Because you were friends.

And so, to all my friends - I’d name you, but fear forgetting anyone - Thank you.

I’m not always good at saying it, but you’ve all had such a lovely and profound impact on my life, and I want all of you to know exactly how special I think you are.

I just found out that someone I didn’t know very well, but was hoping to get to know better after meeting her this past Christmas, left her life on earth behind this weekend for what I sincerely hope is a better place.

It’s just a reminder babies, that life is a precious, fragile thing. Hold onto it carefully, and cherish it as long as it lasts.

Laura, you’ll be missed, and my thoughts and prayers are with your husband and family during this difficult time.

The bad date. Oh my. I honestly can’t think of a much worse one. I hardly know where to start.

I suppose the beginning is a good place. This is long. You may want to grab a snack.

I met a guy. He’s a firefighter. He will henceforth be referred to as RescueDork, since that’s what I seem to end up calling him in conversation.

Our first date, drinks. Unremarkable. I was somewhat surprised when he did call for a second date. We went out for dinner and a movie. Third date, he had me over and made dinner. All in all, things seemed to be going pretty ok.

Fourth date. That fateful night. He invited me out for drinks with a bunch of his work buddies. I figured “what’s the worst that could happen?” Hah. You’re about to find out.

So we’re all sitting around (me being the only “civilian” at the table), and it’s suggested that I recruit some single friends. So I called Jen, who brought Tina out. Turned out none of the guys were actually single, just looking for excuses to ditch their girlfriends. Oops.

Regardless, we drank and were merry, and things were pretty average for hanging around a group of 20-something guys who like to party. At some point, Jen and Tina left, and a few of us moved on to another bar. Much more alcohol was consumed (thankfully not by me), and eventually the group dispersed.

RescueDork was looking a little worse for wear at this point. I made the executive decision that we were leaving. Outside we went, and hailed a cab back to where our cars were waiting.

This is where it all gets very messy. Quite literally.

The cabbie drives us back, and since between the two of us I’m the one with the wherewithal to deal with paying him, I do (with RescueDork’s cash of course). Meanwhile, RescueDork has leapt out of the cab. I’m getting myself out, and he starts shouting at me “DON’T TOUCH THE CAB! DON’T TOUCH THE CAB! I just pissed on it… *gigglefit*”

Oh Lord.

I really should’ve just left him to fend for himself right then and there. I am far too nice.

So I take his keys (no way I’m wasting my own gas) and decide I’m going to take us somewhere he can sleep this off. I suggest his place, which is instantly vetoed, since his ex is on her way over in the morning to pick up some stuff she was storing there. Oy. Baggage. My place it is then.

The 30 minute drive back to my apartment was pretty uneventful. As soon as I parked though, he leapt out as though his pants were on fire. And threw up into the bushes out front. Classy.

At this point I’m still thinking that ok, these moments happen to the best of us. Hopefully it’s all over and he’s just going to pass out. And initially, it seemed like that’s what would happen. I handed him a fresh toothbrush (because whatever happens, I’m still the hostess with the mostest), and he pretty much fell asleep immediately. Shortly thereafter, so did I.

I woke up a few hours later (sometime around 7:00am), and things were eerily quiet. I got up and started looking around - RescueDork, and all traces of his belongings, are gone. And remember, my car is a 30 minute drive (1 hour transit trip) away. MOTHERFUCKER.

Of course I called his cell phone immediately, and heard it ringing in my hallway. He was just on his way stumbling back in, with a large bottle of Gatorade from the gas station down the street.

Apparently, he woke up around 5:30am, still feeling ill, and wanted some air. So he took it upon himself to take off and wander around the neighborhood. Stumbling and puking. Puking and stumbling. At some point he found himself in an industrial area, finally realized that this is how people get mugged or murdered, and made his way back.

But how did he get back in? Did he take my keys or something? No. He just left my apartment door unlocked, and propped the building door open, hoping it’d stay that way until he came back. Thanks, RescueDork!

To recap, the score thus far is: made me somewhat uncomfortable and wasted my friends’ time, urinated on a taxi, threw up in my bushes, made me think I was left stranded, left my apartment and building vulnerable to vandals and ne’er-do-wells.

Oh, but there’s more!

He’s returned with his Gatorade, brushes his teeth again, and crawls into my bed, fully clothed. Ew. Considering he’s been drinking, wandering and throwing up all night? I redirected him to the couch, and hoped for a few more hours of sleep.

Not 10 minutes has gone by, when I hear the living room sliding door open. And then came the sound of someone violently vomiting. Turns out in his head, throwing up in the bathroom of the girl you’re dating is a bad idea. However, yakking over her balcony (aiming for the planter of the neighbor below) at a volume that could only be described as “turned up to eleven” is A-Ok!

This happens no fewer than four times in the hour between 7:00am and 8:00am, at which point I throw on some sweats, and inform him that I’m taking us back to my car. He rambles and babbles the entire ride back. I drive in stony silence.

We get back to my car, and I’ve no sooner thrown his truck into Park, when he jumps out and heaves (yet again) onto the pavement behind the vehicle. I resist the urge to cause him bodily harm, figuring his night has been punishment enough.

I wish I had some witty way to wrap this up, but all I can say is that I gave him his keys, wish him luck getting home at some point, then took myself back home and slept for another few hours.

He called later in the day to see if I wanted to come by and watch a movie that evening - I declined. I’m recalling now that there was no “thanks for taking care of my drunk ass” or “sorry for being a drunken ass” in that conversation either - so much for being a decent person. I should’ve abandoned him in the parking lot and hidden his keys as soon as he sprayed down the taxi.

I swear, if I ever have a date that’s WORSE than that one, I’m either going to shoot myself, or become a nun.

One thing that makes it really easy for me to come up with the Ridiculously High Standards is the fact that while some women make excuses for why they should stay with someone, I am unequalled in my ability to talk myself out of any potential dating/relationship scenario.

I can go from naming babies and building picket fences in my head, to wondering what special kind of crack I was on, thinking that this man was a good idea, in a matter of hours.

It’s a pretty simple process. Obsess about every single detail of the bad date or dates in your mind. Find the top 3 details that make you want to vomit. Focus on them. More. A little more now. Feeling nauseous yet? Keep going. Self-Doubt-and-Loathing set in? PERFECT!

This may take you a little longer at first. You may want to keep making excuses for the idiosyncrasies and keep thinking that it’s just one bad date, or one strange twitch. Don’t give up! In time, and with practice, your skills will improve.

And you’ll know you’ve reached a special level of bitter and jaded, when you start discounting people without even trying to. You’ll realize it when, one day, you’ve written someone off before you’ve even considered the dessert course.

Of course, once I reveal the chaos that was my Friday night, you’ll still wonder what took me so long.

Anyone who knows me, knows I appreciate good food. I do consider myself a bit of a foodie. Perhaps even a food snob.

However, were other foodies to find out about some of my guilty pleasures, my status would be immediately cancelled, and I’d be ostracized for crimes against reasonable cuisine.

I’m going to risk it.

Looking back, I blame it all on my mother. I was blessed to have a Stay at Home Mom until I was well into my teens. She’s a great cook, and always made me eat a healthy breakfast, packed a nutritious lunch, and had a balanced dinner on the table when my dad came home from work. Pizza nights at my house didn’t happen because she was too tired to cook - they happened as a treat because everyone genuinely wanted pizza.

Sounds pretty good, right?

All of this comes with a dark side.

Because there was always such an abundance of quality good and mostly good for me food around (because really, a house is not a home without cookies!), certain things were pretty much outlawed.

And now, of course, since I’m allegedly a grownup and have full reign over my own pantry the following items that I was never fed as a child make regular appearances in my diet:

- Lunchables
- Handy Snacks
- Pop Tarts
- Sugary Cereals
- Pizza Pops
- Chef Boyardee
- Eggo Waffles
- Kraft Singles

I’m sure there are quite a few other non-nutritive offenders out there that I’ve forgotten, but you get the gist.

I don’t make a regular habit of eating these, but if I’m especially ill or stressed out, I seem to crave them. I suppose the total lack of nutritional content or anything challenging to digest makes them a popular caloric option for an upstet tummy.

So if you see me chowing on white bread grilled cheese sandwiches or eggo waffles, you know something’s up.

And if you have any brilliant ideas about how to make me feel this way about something like broccoli, please pass them on.

And whatever you do, please don’t tell my mom!