If you’ve been reading here any length of time, you may have picked up on the fact that Big Mama and I are really close friends. We’ve never seen each other in person, mind you (yes, it is quite possible to make friends ON THE COMPUTER. THROUGH BLOGGING. THE WONDERS, THEY DO NOT CEASE.), but we email a whole bunch and talk on the phone when we can. The talking part can get complicated because of the preschoolers who reside in our homes, but over the last year we’ve learned each other’s schedules well enough to time the phone calling accordingly.

For example, lately it is difficult to get me on the phone before 8:30AM, and the reason for this is that I AM NOT AWAKE YET.

On the other hand, if someone were to call between 11:30PM and 1:30AM, I’m pretty much a sure conversational thing. What with the Nightowlism and all.

Anyway, Big Mama (sidenote: I don’t know if y’all know this or not, but that’s not her real name. It’s really not. And while I’m the business of dropping bombshells: BooMama isn’t my real name, either. HARD TO BELIEVE, ISN’T IT?) and I have figured out that we generally have a good shot at a phone conversation early in the afternoons. Caroline and Alex both have snack time and rest time then, and it’s proven to be a reliable window for Big Mama and me to discuss various and sundry Terribly Important Issues: Big 12 and SEC football, Chris Tomlin, make-up, marriage, Target, Gulley and Emma Kate, future plans for our hair, Jesus, motherhood – and that’s just the tip of the conversational iceberg.

However, there are several topics that the two of us probably won’t address, ever: foreign policy, heavy metal music, computer programming, and space exploration, just to name a few.

So one day last week we got on the phone right after we had administered our respective snacks to our respective preschoolers, and we were deep in discussion about Victoria Beckham or a Beth Moore Bible Study or cheese biscuits with strawberry butter or some combination of the three, and suddenly Caroline’s crying interrupted our conversation.

I could hear Big Mama asking Caroline if she was okay, murmuring words of comfort, telling her that “you’re going to be fine, baby. You’re going to be fine.”

“Such a sweet mama,” I was thinking.

And then Big Mama capped off her Caroline-comforting with a refrain that will make me laugh for the rest of my days: “Just keep eating, baby. Just keep eating.”

Now in fairness I should tell you that Caroline had a run-in with a Dorito that left her wondering if she wanted to finish her snack, and Big Mama was just trying to let Caroline know that she didn’t have to be afraid of the remaining Doritos, that she could continue snacking with no fear of Dorito-induced harm.

But when I overheard Big Mama’s reaction, I immediately died laughing – not because I thought Big Mama was trying to teach Caroline to use food as a crutch, oh heavens no – but because it’s such a Southern thing to encourage the eating process. We enjoy our food so much down here, and we want others to enjoy it, too. Doritos are no exception. I knew that Big Mama wanted Caroline to JUST KEEP EATING because what if she was left with permanent Dorito-scarring? What if she decided that she didn’t in fact like Doritos?

It was a quality of life issue as much as anything else. Because if Big Mama let Caroline gave up on the Doritos at three, what’s to say that Caroline wouldn’t want to give up on fajitas with homemade guacamole at fifteen? That would be completely unacceptable for a young Texas girl. Completely unacceptable.

So really, when you get right down to it, what I overheard that day on the phone was a Deeply Touching Life Lesson. That’s exactly what it was.

Even still, Big Mama’s assurance that EATING MORE FOOD WILL MAKE IT ALL BETTER left me more convinced than ever that we will be friends for the rest of our lives, even if the internet explodes and our blogs erupt into fiery orange balls of HTML code.

I’m also certain that a new bloggy tagline is in order for Mrs. Big Mama:

Just keep eating, internets. Just keep eating.

On second thought, maybe I should save that one for myself.

So here’s a story I haven’t told y’all.

Right after Christmas, when D. and I met New Marti for the first time, we could tell right away that Todd was completely smitten with her. When you’ve been friends with someone for more than fifteen years, you pick up on these things.

Our day with Todd and New Marti seemed to fly; and by the time we ate lunch, visited with Martha and Sissie and hung out at Mama and Daddy’s a little bit more, it was time to say good-bye. Todd and New Marti were going back to his parents’ house outside of Jackson, and we were heading back to Alabama.

Once D. and I were in the car alone (well, with Alex, of course), we immediately looked at each other and said, “She’s the one.”

And we weren’t two blocks from Mama and Daddy’s when I looked at D. and said, “Hey, has Todd told Marti that he loves her yet?”

D. replied that he had no idea.

“Well, I’m going to ask him,” I said.

So I called Todd’s cell phone – with the plan of asking him very quietly so that Marti wouldn’t overhear the question and get embarrassed. After all, I’d only known her for about four hours, and she might feel a little awkward what with me asking terribly personal questions and all.

For some reason Todd’s voicemail picked up, and I said, in my typically subtle fashion, “Hey. Have you told Marti that you love her yet? Because we can tell that you love her. And you should tell her. I’m just sayin’.”

Then I hung up my phone.

Well, about five minutes later D.’s phone rang, and Todd was on the other end laughing so hard that he couldn’t speak.

Apparently Todd was going through a no-service area when I called him, and shortly after I hung up my phone, he saw that he had a message. And he decided that he would play it. On speakerphone. With Marti in the car.

Thankfully, Todd did not kill me. In fact, the message served a bit of an icebreaker for a conversation whose time had come, and WHADDYA KNOW, Todd and Marti professed their love for each other on the way back to Jackson.

I’m like Cupid. Only not.

Well, long story long, about six weeks ago Todd called D. with the news that he had asked Marti’s parents for her hand in marriage (he may live in California, but he’s a good Southern boy at heart), they’d given their blessing, and he was planning to ask Marti to marry him sometime in June.

I couldn’t help but ask Todd if he needed me to leave any voicemails on his cell phone to speed up the process.

He gently declined my offer.

Todd and D. had lots of talks over the next couple of weeks, and right before we left for the land of the mouse, Todd sent us a picture of the engagement ring he had picked out, which was really kind of him since it made me COMPLETELY PARANOID about letting the secret slip when we were in California.

But I was so good, y’all. Total Sidney Bristow-type cool (except without the cool disguises, of course). Even when the word “ring” would come up in casual conversation (as in, “Did your phone ring?”) and I would feel the color completely drain from my face.

The plan was that Todd was going to give Marti the ring this past Tuesday night at the end of a very romantic dinner. When Tuesday night finally rolled around, D. and I were VERY nervous for him and kept waiting for him to call with the big news. At one point Marti left their table for a minute, and Todd did call D. – but instead of having big news, he had two very important questions:

“BETWEEN THE PINKY FINGER AND THE MIDDLE FINGER?”

“Yes,” D. answered.

“LEFT HAND?”

“Yes.”

“Okaybye.”

And about an hour later, two very happy people called to share their exciting news.

So the next time D. and I head to California, it’s going to be for a wedding.

We can all say “AWWWWW” together.

Probably the best way I can explain this past weekend is to tell you that by nine o’clock Friday night, I had to take two Advil because I had a splitting headache from laughing so hard.

No kidding: there were several moments this weekend when I had to remind myself to breathe.

As an unexpected bonus, our friend Melissa was able to join our little mini-reunion at the last minute. Melissa was Miss Everything in high school, bears a stunning resemblance to Julia Roberts, and earned her PhD in something I couldn’t explain to you if I tried. She had a baby not too terribly long ago, but she has bounced right back into her usual size 6 clothes.

Also, she does not have any wrinkles.

And if you’re thinking that you might have to resent her for just a second if you met her, I’ll just go ahead and tell you that you can’t. It’s impossible. She’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, and when I think of her, I think of sunshine.

So between the surprise of getting to see Melissa, Merritt’s wacky shenanigans that left me doubled over with laughter, Daphne’s well-timed punch lines, and Liz’s hilarious stories, I am exhausted in the best possible way. We ate way too much, talked non-stop, and laughed until we sobbed. It was divine.

I kept a running list of blog topics in my head all weekend…I thought that I might write about our recollection that Merritt once wrote a term paper in college on belts, or celebrating Melissa’s birthday in a Mexican restaurant and Merritt using just enough Spanish so that the busboy got a bit of a crush on her and literally embraced her when we left, or my complete inability to park Liz’s gigantor SUV without either taking up two spaces or ending up at a terribly awkward angle.

But oddly enough, I find that I can’t write about any of those things.

Because as I sat around my breakfast room table this morning and looked at the faces of four girls who, for the better part of my life, have seen me at my very best and my very worst and everything in between, I felt so completely, profoundly grateful for the blessing of such sweet friends that it overwhelmed me just a little bit, and I realized that there is absolutely no way that my words can do our weekend justice.

And that’s okay – because there are some parts of my life that I just need to hold really close to my heart without thinking about how I’m going to edit them. That’s how I feel about these past few days.

However, you’ll be delighted to know that D. returned home today with a humdinger of a Martha story, and I’m sure it’ll make its way into the blog fray in the next day or two.

By the way: do you know what was the best part of D. and Alex being gone all weekend?

When they came home.

See y’all tomorrow.

This weekend my friends Merritt, Liz and Daphne are coming to visit me.

I’ll pause for a moment so that you have sufficient time for applause. 

Daph and I met when we were freshmen in college, and I don’t think there’s anyone on the face of the planet who gets my sense of humor as well as she does. She can essentially say one word – for example, “monitor” – and, because of her unique Daph-esque inflections, make me laugh so hard that I find myself snorting and in desperate need of a disposable adult undergarment.

As you can tell, I am a delicate, Southern flower.

I have been friends with Merritt and Liz since I was twelve years old and had recently experimented with an easy 1-2-3 bang-cutting method that I saw in Seventeen magazine. Unfortunately, I did not achieve the “wispy bang” look that I was after, and instead I ended up with a two-inch tuft of hair that essentially transformed the left side of my head into a neon sign that said “HEY, Y’ALL! I CUT MY OWN BANGS!” in bright orange letters.

But Merritt and Liz wanted to be my friends anyway. I’ve been understandably loyal ever since.

Now because I didn’t meet Daph until college, I don’t have the vast repository of embarrassing photographs that I do for Merritt and Liz. I’ve looked ALL OVER my house for a picture of Daphne and me from our junior year of college, simply because she was going through what we like to call her pseudo-alternative phase – complete with small, round glasses that would have made Michael Stipe very proud indeed – and I was coming out of a Terribly Permed phase and sporting a lovely ‘do that was straight as a board at the top of my head but a mass of ringlets at the bottom.

However, since I couldn’t find that picture, I decided to post this one instead:

We were eating pizza, and while I would love to tell you that such an occurrence was a very rare one when we were in college, that would be a lie. As a matter of fact, the number for Domino’s was 324-2100, and the fact that I still know that critical bit of information almost fifteen years after leaving my beloved alma mater is proof that my daddy’s investment in my college education was worth every. single. dime.  

That’s me on the left, by the way. In the sweatshirt that’s both tie-dyed and bedazzled. Because I totally had it goin’ on in college. Oh yeah. Had to beat the fellas away with a stick. Or a Domino’s box, as it were.

After I found the picture of Daph and me, I started to look for pictures of Merritt and Liz, too.

I think you’ll be well-pleased with what I found:

That’s Liz, then Merritt, then me.

As you can tell, I spent most of my time not tanning when I wasn’t teasing my bangs and neglecting to pluck my eyebrows.

I don’t know what made me laugh harder: the fact that Merritt and Liz sported thick, gold chains in their senior portraits (don’t think for one second that my 17 year old self wasn’t green with envy about that, by the way), or the fact that you could have quite easily hung Christmas ornaments from our hair.

I mean, look at those well-defined layers. We could have nestled writing utensils or small snacks or diminutive furry creatures in there for hours on end without disturbing our coiffures in the least. Personally, I’d like to see us recreate those looks this weekend, but I don’t think they make lacquer for hair anymore because of some federally-mandated regulations about stripping away ozone or somesuch nonsense.

Needless to say, we have big fun in store over the next few days. So if you need to find me, I’ll be in my living room or my kitchen, laughing until I lose my breath, collapsing on the nearest piece of furniture, clutching my side, then laughing some more, all the while trying not to wet my pants.

And until I return, indulge me if you dare: leave me a comment with the name(s) of your best friend(s) from high school, the band or singer that you thought was the AWESOMEST when you were 17 or 18, and – if you can bear it – what you would have been wearing if I had run into you on an average high school day (and thanks, Veronica, for this idea).

In closing, I’d like to leave you with these words of wisdom that my friend Brian B. wrote in my high school yearbook:

“May your path always be filled with success (YOU decide SUCCESS). If you do not know where or how to find it, stick to your guns, never surrender. Blood is thicker than water. You cannot get blood from a stone….”

I have no idea what that means, internets, but I have a feeling it’s terribly profound. And deep. And stuff.