My First Craigslist Missed Connection

I apologize for my absence as of late and appreciate your patience during my brief hiatus.  I wish I could explain my disappearance on the fact that I took up touring with a jazz band or that I was filming the next season of The Amazing Race, but the reality is I have been busy with other things and chose not to make the time to blog.  Fortunately, life has settled down a bit and I am getting into summer shenanigan mode, meaning your weekly dose of Cari is coming back.

I do have a few stories that I need to catch you up on, but for now I share with you my very first posting in the Missed Connection Section of Craigslist:

"You came at me like a naked flash of white lightning. I was standing on Addison near Clark in front of Wrigley when I shouted out to my friend, "Oh my god!" as we all turned to see you sprinting around homeplate, cupping your gingerbread with one hand and pumping your other arm while running as fast as you could.

You looked pretty cute and I certainly enjoyed the view from behind for the few fleeting moments I saw it as you continued running down the first base line side of Addison.

I'd love to buy you a beer and have you regale me with the story of how you ended up streaking around Wrigley Field on an otherwise idle Thursday night. Or at the least, I would like to know if you completed your bare-assed adventure without getting picked up by the police.

Cheers!"

Unfortunately, this story does not have a happy ending. I am sad to report that I never did hear from my Streaker.  And worst, I received  multiple messages that he was picked up on Sheffield and hauled off to the pokey.  And true to Craigslist form, perhaps the worst result of all of this was the outrageous amount of e-mails I received from men that solicited "services of an adult nature," or were colorful in their descriptions of what they'd like to do with me. Some even including some rather personal shots of their gingerbread.

Thanks, but no thanks, Craigslist.  Next time I see a streaker I want meet, I will race down to the precinct with a bathrobe and some bail money.

At least then I will have solicited the shots of the gingerbread.

This One is For the Ladies...

If you are of the XY chromosome make up, have gingerbread or can look at the inseam of your Levis and have a finite twig and berries, then I highly suggest you stop reading now.  Seriously, stop. Because I am about to write about sweater pups.  Now, I know that if you are  a man you are probably looking forward to a sneak peak of a "lady" talking about her chest hams, but the following writing is not going to be about me describing rubbing the pups up in cocoa butter before walking 'em to bark at the moon, but rather the sheer logistical pain in the ass it is to have two fat sockets projecting themselves from one's lower shoulder/upper torso area.

You have been warned.

Bras.  Brassieres. Flopper Stoppers. Over the Shoulder Boulder Holders. Boobie Holsters. Unmentionables.  Call it whatever the Hell you want –– I call it a pain in the ass.

Before  I continue on my tirade of bras, let me be very clear. I do not hate bras.  They are important in preventing us from getting breast tears that can lead to growths and they also help us keep our sweater hams from wobbling to and fro, making sure we can never tie them in a knot or tie them in a bow.  Rather, I hate the sizing and manufacturing on bras.  And I hate how terribly awkward they make me feel.

If you were to open my bra drawer right now, you would find bras ranging from a 38C to a 42DD. Men, if you are still reading, I have two comments for you. 1. WHY are you still reading, did you miss the memo that this one was for the ladies??? and 2. Bras are sized in two ways: Width around (think the 36, 38,40 and cup size of B, C, D, etc. The number is the inches it takes to get around our bodies, the alphabet is the actual mass of said fat sockets.)   Back to my story, I came to the sad realization that I did not own a bra that fit me properly.  Naturally, I lamented this to my Mom and she sent me a card telling me to go get some "support" along with a cash donation to finance getting some "Proper Support."

I decided it was high time to get myself properly fitted for a bra because when considering my two favorite bras: One fit around me fantastically but made my poor sweater pups bounce around like ping pong balls in the cup and, the other cupped the girls fantastically but was so tight around that I had this weird double-ass forming at my shoulder blades.  Such is life...

Being the "lady" I am, I properly researched all lingerie shops in Chicago and finally decided on a shop located at North Michigan Avenue (aka hope you own a Lexus and a sweatshop to afford shopping here.)  I showed up 15 minutes late, covered in dog fur but carrying a Coach bag Santa brought me.  I check in (Yes, there was  a hostess!!!) and she tells me to wait a few moments, peruse their items and wait for my consultant.

I start casually window shopping and notice a 50ish-year-old man talking to a Consultant on bras for his wife.  Naturally, I discreetly move closer to eavesdrop and hear: "I want to buy a bra for her that does not make it look like an ass is sitting on her chest.  I just want her to not have butt boob."

A cackle rings through the store just as a large silhouette darts behinds a pillar, shoves her head into a clearance rack of negligees and starts biting on her fist to not simply lose it.

Two thing: 1.  I will give you one guess as to who the girl down on all four, head in a rack of teddies was. 2.  He said BUTT BOOBS!!!

Ahahahahaha  I am STILL crying laughing over that one!  Imagine it, a commodities trader telling a glorified lace and underwire pusher that he did not want his wife's chest to look like as ass any more!  I guess I just gave away the mystery of who the cackles that kept ringing through the store belonged to were...

Butt boob.  Really, does life get any richer than that?

Anyway, the hostess quickly assesses the situation, seeing a wealthy man disturbed by anonymous cackles ringing through the store and a lady with an appointment now on her side, rolling with the giggles behind a pillar, fist in mouth to supress her laughter, muttering Butt Boob repeatedly.

Cari Bear is immediately called to meet with her consultant.

I head into a private dressing room with my consultant, Angela.  She immediately tells me to remove everything from the waist up and I obediently do, having flashbacks of strip Flip Cup freshman year at Ohio U.  She asks me what my issue is and I explain to her that I am very disproportionate for my body shape and  I should be significantly bustier.  Women my size normally sport cleavage that a homeless family could take up residence in, whereas I would be lucky to accomodate Tinkerbell. I pour my heart out to Angela about how hard it is to find bras, tops and blouses that fit me around that are not a Hoover Dam of gaping fabric in the bust.  Mind you I am doing all of this while completely naked from waist up, roughly 8 inches away from her in a space smaller than most closets.

I do hope that across the room there was someone else cackling at my situation.

Angela comes back in with a huge assortment of bras, telling me she thinks I am more of a European fit (read: we can charge you 5 times as much because it's European.)  She starts tossing  lace and satin garments on me from all angles, tugging Righty up while shoving Lefty down so that my chest looks more balanced.  I get caught up in the moment, savoring the fact that there are, in fact, bras out there that fit my lovely chest hams perfectly while not making my back look like rotating hot dogs at a baseball stadium.  Angela tells me she knows that we would work well together immediately by saying:

"I can completely feel your pain on being so wide and having a relatively small bust.  I have a similar problem in that I have such a small frame and huge breasts from these ridiculous implants I got when I was 21."

Let that one sink in for a moment.

Yes, I can see how a plus-sized, size 14 with glorified C cups is exactly like a Size 2 with Double DDs in this culture.   And my skin that rarely sees natural sun and hair that  has not been dyed in 4 years is EXACTLY like your perfect golden spray tan and amazingly maintained highlights. I totally feel your pain.

I wish I could say that her comment made me throw all of those beautiful lace and satin garments on the floor.  I wish I could say I told that Consultant that she had NO IDEA what it was like to be built fat with small boobies in our culture.  I would be so proud to say I marched out of there with my head held high, telling the commodities trader to quit caring less about his wife's Butt Boob and actually ask her how she was doing and felt instead.

But I am a fat girl. And fat girl's have many weakness.  Rather, I spent the rest of my monthly grocery budget, and then some,  on a few garments that made me feel amazing, made me comfortable and made me feel as if I understood the pain of a consultant who was too thin and busty to handle the world.   The moment I walked out of the store, I texted JP and said, " I just spent way too much on one bra.  It made my boobies look like two beautiful dancing orbs suspended by sheer sex."

Because when all is said and done, I am pretty sure dancing orbs trump Butt Boob any day...

My Sad Reality

Deep Down, I always knew that the day would come that I would projectile vomit on the Red Line. I just always assumed that it would be a result of an evening of too much whiskey consumption, not a flair up of the flu bug that I shook a day ago.

To my fellow CTA riders, I really did try to keep it all in my Redeye, but for the past 48 hours I've only been consuming popsicles, gatorade and chicken broth.  Newspaper is no match for pure liquid.

To the CTA officials, I suggest you cordon off the third to last car on the northbound Red Line.  I hear kitty litter does wonders for soaking up bile, feel free to bill my transit account for the cost of said litter.

And to my stomach, thank you for keeping thing under wraps until after I got off work.  If it was going to happen, I would much prefer that it occurred in an environment where people regularly express their bodily waste rather than in a kitchen.

Next time though, I would appreciate some warning signs, such as some salivation, or just hold on for two more stops so I can do it in the gutter like the classy girl that I am.

May The Force Be With You

Dear CTA,

I have never seen the Star Wars trilogy, but I am aware of pop culture references.  That is why I would like to thank you for the entertainment you provided in the form of two Star War fans dueling with lightsabers while I waited a ridiculously long time for a northbound Red Line.  Perhaps if you provided this sort of entertainment every evening, you would see a sharp decrease in the volume of strongly-worded letters you are receiving from me in respect to the single-track construction bullshit you have going on. Thirty minutes is not a reasonable wait for a train, what do you think it is, the Pink Line?!?!

Either provide more entertainment like this or fix your timing on the single track trains, or else I may have to use the force, aka increase my letter writing campaign. 

XOXO
Your friend,
Cari

Cari Bear, Table for One

My most recent encounter on Match.com is quickly becoming the stuff that urban legends are made of in my circle of friends, so please bear with me as I do not want to leave any exquisite detail out.

Three weeks ago or so, I started bantering with a nice guy on Match.com.  He messaged me due the fact that he laughed at my headline, "Must Love Hall & Oates." Things progressed, we talked on the phone and I laughed. A lot.  And the quickest way to get me to adore you is to make me laugh. FamilyMan (name given due to the fact that it's a Hall & Oates song that also fits this man's hopes for our Match meeting.  Go ahead and file this one under "Obvious Foreshadowing for Disaster.")

Anyway, FamilyMan and I agree that we are going to get together that upcoming Friday night for a few drinks and do the whole standard meet and greet judgment of "Did she photoshop her pictures?" and "Does he look like someone who has killed prostitutes on the turnpike?" The night before our agreed meet-up, FamilyMan cancels because there is a snow storm coming, up to 16 inches he claimed.  I checked the report, saw it was only 1-3 and immediately called bullshit on him.  Well, it turns out FamilyMan was not wholly forthright in his profile in disclosing his location.  It turns out his "City of Chicago" location was actually BFE, Indiana.  FamilyMan came clean and I explained that I did not own a car and did not think it was feasible for me to see someone in Indiana. Thirty miles separation back in Ohio is nothing to blink at.  Here in Chicago, it qualifies as a long-distance relationship in my mind.  Truthfully, I do not think I would even be able to date someone in Logan Square or Pilsen. If a bus transfer is going to be involved to see someone, it's doomed from the beginning.   Anyway FamilyMan assured me that it is no problem for him to come into the city to see me and it would not be an issue.

Red Flag #1: What mentally healthy person would want to deal with the Skyway, Dan Ryan and Lake Shore just to see a broad?  Let me tell you, a desperate one.

Long story short, we canceled our Friday plans due to the snow (that never showed up!) and agreed to reschedule for a later date.  Throughout the week FamilyMan and I texted about mindless things such as our favorite H&O songs, David Bowie, and the merits of gin over vodka. He was not too clingy and did not seem anxious to meet me, so I dismissed my concerns on the fact that he would want to date someone 30 miles away. 

I had the following Saturday evening off, a gift more precious than manna from heaven in my industry, so I made plans with FamilyMan over texting.  That night after I got home from work, he called to chat me up.  During the course of our conversation, I went from really excited about our date Saturday because he seemed like a nice guy to really excited about our date Saturday so I could tell all of my friends about how terrible it was.  Some of the information that he shared was:

-He told his parents about me.  Not in a, "Oh I am going out with a girl from match, here's her information in case I die" sort of way, but in a, "She's an amazing woman, so beautiful, so smart and witty" way.  He also told all of his closest friends this information.  And he told me that he shared it with them.  While he was certainly accurate in describing me, the fact remains he has NEVER EVER MET ME YET!  I could be covered in green scales, I could have terrible body odor or I could only eat my food like Randy from The Christmas Story (okay, that last one is not too far of  a stretch, but you get my point.)

-He repeatedly told me how much potential he thought we had together.  And then got annoyed when I did not agree. I told him that I am going into things with no expectations, am simply looking forward to meeting a new person and hopefully having a nice evening together.  Red Flag #2.

-He said he wanted to get dinner at 6.  I said, "Six o'clock?" and he replied with, "Well unless you want to go earlier."  Earlier??? I was thinking 7:30 or 8, certainly not 6. My friends summed it up best with Max Maple's response of, "Where in the hell are you going? Bill Knapps?" and the Grappler's, "Are you 80 and grabbing an early bird special?"  My thoughts exactly.   However, I saw some merit in the 6 o'clock meeting as it meant a departure of 10 was perfectly reasonable, allowing me plenty of time to meet up with my friends and regal them with the recap.

-He dropped the bomb of, "I'm ready to settle down in my life."  I asked him to explain what he meant by that and it was precisely what I feared, the "Have a wife and make some babies settle down."  I immediately wanted to start dry heaving.  I would rather a man tell me that he has genital herpes than say he is ready to settle down in life.  I would also accept that he has a closer-than-appropriate relationship with his pet goat, does not believe in showering or voted for Bush in 2004 over ready to settle down.  Scratch that last one, I would take someone who wants to settle down over a Bush supporter.  Both induce dry heaves, but the Bush-supporter heaves produce actual vomit.

-He told me how his parents fell in love on their first date, married one month later and have been in wedded bliss for the past 38 years. As if the implied hopes and dreams of sharing this story were not strong enough, he later joked that perhaps we would fall in love on our date.  And here comes the actual vomit...

I politely ended our conversation yet still agreed to go out on Saturday, and immediately regretted doing so, as it meant I lost the opportunity to see my 9-5er friends who I have a hard time coordinating my schedule with.  Nonetheless, I tried to put my best attitude on and began psyching myself up for the date by telling anyone in earshot about the asinine date I was going to have.  The night prior to the big date, I met up with The Grappler and our buddy Max Maple.  I tell them that I have plans to fall in love the following night and the conversation quickly turns to the engagement ring I shall be finding in my dessert and the lotion that I will have to put into the basket.  Prior to parting ways, the guys did make sure that I felt safe about meeting him and made me promise that I would have my phone and pepper spray available at all times. I assured them I would and we made plans to meet post date.

Saturday arrives and I am not overly excited about my date, but I am looking forward to eating some yummy tapas and hopefully getting some good fodder for the blog.  Unfortunately for me, only one of those things came true for me.  On my way to the restaurant, I was texting FamilyMan and he says he is almost there.  I was also wise and shot a text off to Grappler, Max Maple and JP that read, "The man's name is FamilyMan, his #  is 555-555-5555. I was last seen entering Cafe Iberico in a black & grey dress and snappy black boots. Should I go missing, give this info to the CPD and the tip to search residences that requested zoning to construct a well in their basement."  Responses flew and references to baskets, lotions, and not hurting dogs abounded. I debated turning around and heading home to the hound.

But once I stepped onto Chicago Avenue on a Saturday evening, looking amazing and feeling jovial, I was actually excited about my adventure.  The fact that I got a few "Nice boots!" hollered out to me did not hurt either.  I walk into the restaurant at five after and look around for someone vaguely looking like FamilyMan. Not seeing him, I check in with the hostess and waited.  Five more minutes go by and I text, "Are you already seated?" No response.  Ten more minutes elapse and I text, "You standing me up?" No response.  I shoot a flurry of messages off to JP saying I would wait for 10 more, can't believe I was stood up, etc.  At 6:30 I step out of the restaurant and call.  No response.  I resign to the fact that I was, in fact, stood up and walked to the closest bar I could find, ordered a Guinness and regrouped.  I was in shock. After all, he wanted to fall in love with me.  He texted that he was almost there. My head was spinning with questions, so I set off to meet Grappler, Max Maple and his lady Sister Mary Margaret.

I get to their table and the first thing the Grappler says is, "Those are snappy boots!" I grab a seat and tell the server to bring me whatever stout or porter has the highest alcohol content.  I down a few 9.2% stouts and, as I love to do, turn the conversation back to myself and how could I possibly be stood up.  Max Maple states that the only logical conclusion was that he was killed in a fiery crash on the Dan Ryan and not that he saw me and bolted. Note:  In addition to the snappy boots, there was a gratuitous amount of cleavage.  I quickly agree with his conclusion and pull up the traffic report to see that there was, in fact, an accident on the Dan Ryan.  Naturally the conversation turns to his funeral.  We all agree that I need to show up playing the role of the grieving widow, as I was supposed to get engaged that night. The plan was for the four of us to go to his funeral, I give a moving eulogy on how he was willing to die for my love, I demand the $15 for my cab ride and Guinness from his parents, ask what his last name was so I can change it appropriately then be on our way.  Note: I realize this sounds ridiculously callous, but you need to consider the fact that the company I keep voluntarily chooses to be around me.  I am sure you can imagine the type of motley crew that is...

I depart ways with the crew and head down to meet another group of friends.  These friends are paid to spend time with me but elect to spend their free time with me as well (No, not gigolos, rather coworkers.)  En route to meet them, I receive a call from FamilyMan's mom telling me that he was jumped and mugged on his way to meet me. They stole his wallet and phone. And a knife was involved. Swallow that, and consider that I received a call from a blind date's Mother. Red Flag #3.

Out of respect for FamilyMan, I will not go into details of the incident.  But rest assured that he is fine, so much so that he texted me on Sunday from a new phone to tell me what happened and to thank me for the colorful voicemails my friends left him.

Remember how I texted my friends with his name and number?  Hell may have no fury like a woman scorned, but Earth has no fury like the friends of a scorned Cari Bear.  After I took off, they left him a litany of voicemails ranging from Max Maple telling him he needs to see a doctor and get his head checked for standing me up while Sister Mary Margaret called him a hick from Indiana who she saw once on the Maury Show. Say what you want about me, but the company I keep?  They are incredibly witty and fiercely loyal. Note: The Grappler did not recall making any calls, but his phone records indicated two voicemail-length calls.    FamilyMan tells me that he wish they had the facts before leaving the messages, I point out that was not possible and he admitted that they were actually quite hilarious.

I tell FamilyMan that we need to meet soon or else I will lose interest.  Yes, I realize that he had no control over getting mugged, but I am a woman in demand and cannot keep freeing up nights for an unknown.  He says we will meet the following night for pancakes.  Long story short, Monday evening he cancels and I end up out with the Badger and Frances, regaling them with the story of how I was supposed to fall in love on Saturday but ended up pitching carrots at my hound dog at 4 a.m. instead.  We all concluded that it was best to let FamilyMan go to be with a woman who also wants to settle down and will not lead to assaults on the streets.

And to FamilyMan, we may have not fallen in love at dessert, I may have never met you and I don't even know your last name, but know that you gave me one of the most exciting weekends of my life without even meeting me.

 It's nice when that happens without inappropriate charges appearing on my credit card on Monday morning. 

Cari Ponders...

What is it about Triscuits that make them never go stale? I bought this box of Cracked Pepper Triscuits in July and they are still delicious.  Is it that the fiber makes them already odd, masking the staleness? Or is it because they truly are weaved with wonder?

All I know is that Triscuits=Best Return on a Long-Term Nourishment Investment when your main meals consist of either a Fiber One bar, ramen  or stale popcorn.

And while Cari is pondering....How in the world did I acquire this Hamm's I am drinking?  I don't buy cans for home, nor do I buy shitty beers.  How is it that I finished two bottles of craft beers and am now downing a Hamm's with my Triscuits. Perhaps that is the TRUE wonder of the weave...

God Bless You, Nabisco.

My Funny Valentine; or You've Got a Friend

In case you have been living under a rock for the past few weeks, Saint Valentine's Day was yesterday.  I am quite proud to report that this is a day that I have become quite ambivalent towards. Granted, I worked a long shift taking care of all the couples who came to dine at the stellar establishment that I am proud to be a part of, but other than that, I really did not even notice it was Valentine's Day.  Except when I went grocery shopping, but I think my Facebook status for the day pretty much summed things up:

 "To all of the Valentine's Day shoppers at the Grocery Store who were giving me pathetic and pitiful looks as I was purchasing 40 pounds of weight control dog food and 4 bottles of Cabernet, Let's re-evaluate this situation: I get to get drunk and have David Bowie dance party with a bad ass little Hound Dog. You are shamed into spending money on subpar quality chocolates and flowers that are out of season. Looks like the joke's on you, Suckas!!?

Note: I did NOT get to have David Bowie Dance party with the Hound.  By the time I got home, I was dead to the world. Those bottles of vino are being applied to tonight, as I really only write well when my blood type is  Cabernet.  Take note of the timestamps on when I post, clearly I only channel my inner Fitzgerald when a bit schnockered...but that's how F. Scott rolled so it only seems fitting.

But I digress.  Moral of the story is I truly felt no bitterness towards the fact that I was not going to receive any flowers, chocolates or romantic surprises on February 14th.  Mainly because I am wholly content and happy with my life and the amazing people that are in it.  I did not need a "Valentine" because my friends bring me all the love and happiness I need.  It boggles my mind daily when I look at my circle of friends and try to decipher why in the Hell they keep me around.  And Valentine's Day reaffirmed this for me.  Despite the fact that I received no formal "Valentine" gift, I received a barrage of personalized messages from friends expressing their love and friendship.  Note:  It needs to be stated that I did, in fact, receive cards from both my Old Man and my Mom.  Mom, thank you for the sweet card, cash and a note telling me to buy myself beer or chocolate. I picked beer.  Old Man, I expect you to step up your game come St. Patrick's Day.

Anyway, as I stated earlier, it truly boggles my mind why my friends keep me around.  Anytime I spend time with one of them, I walk away thinking, "What an amazing person, how did I end up in his or her life?"  While I do this with every friendship, none boggle my mind quite like the relationship that I have with JP.

JP. Those two letters are probably meaningless to you, but to me, they represent the biggest mystery in the universe of how one person can tolerate another   (Also, we agreed to be each other's Valentine's, so there is your seque.)  While JP represents quite a mystery to me, those letters also represent the epitome of friendship to me.  Those who know JP and I as adults without knowing us as youngins' frequently comment that they don't understand how we are friends.  Those that knew us in our younger days know that we played sports together, attended Math & Science camp together, took 2nd place in the Science Olympiad as a team together and that we wore matching Mickey Mouse Outfits together.  It is only logical to those that knew us then.  But those that know us now?  We are an anomaly. She's quiet, I'm loud.  She listens, I talk. She cries when she laughs, I laugh when others cry.  She observes, draw logical conclusions and speaks with purpose, I spend most of my time thinking of me, how does the conversation relate to me and how can I work Cari into things.  To summarize, if we were birds, JP would be a sparrow whereas I would be a screech owl.

My little sparrow is also the singular person in my life who knows every thing about me.  I tell her everything (probably because she is such a great listener.) I always walk away wondering why she continues to keep me in her life and offer me such sage and thoughtful advice.  But when I say everything, I do mean everything, ranging from:  (Note: these are actual text messages and/or conversations I've had with JP.)

*Ahem* Ranging from:

The Mundane: "I just spent 15 minutes spinning hard-boiled eggs on my kitchen counter."

The Things She Could Not Care Less About: "My Red Line car smells like pee."

The Too Much Information: "I just got my first Brazilian and now I want to show off my oonie like a shiny new toy."  (My apologies to my parents and their friends for having to read that.)

The Philisophical: "Life is all about seizing the moment and throwing caution to the wind."


The Drunken Expressions of Love: "If you were the last frozen coke on Earth, JP, I still wouldn't drink you."

The Shameless Fishing For a Compliment: "I mean, I am cute right?"

These examples are only the tip of the iceberg in respect to what I share with JP.  And through it all, I almost always find myself telling her, "I don't know why you put up with me and I don't know what I would do without you."

And it's the truth.  The biggest mystery in my life is why this girl tolerates me.  However, it seems I recently found the answer. Last week I made the very difficult decision to end a friendship that meant a lot to me.  Naturally, JP is the only person who knows all the details, but the short story is that it is a person that I love and care about endlessly and I realized that having her/him in my life was detrimental.  So I called that person up, told the person how I felt and asked that he/she never contact me again.  Prior to making that call, I called up JP for advice and a pep talk. Afterward, I texted her all night about how I felt like my heart was breaking and that I was sitting on the couch eating mediocre take out and crying. The next day I told JP how I wanted to write a letter and could not decide whether to send it or burn it.

And then Whitney Houston died. Suddenly my pathetic heartache from cutting someone I love out of my life had an avenue for escape.

Naturally, I shoot off a text to JP to comment on the situation:

The Text: "Whitney Houston's death sure is convenient!  Now it is not pathetic that I am going to listen to I Will Always Love You endlessly while crying into a bottle of wine!  It's honoring her!"

Her response? Her response is what finally clued me in to why she keeps me around:

"And this is why I love you!"

After decades of being friends, I finally learn why JP tolerates me and my immense oversharing – because I can make light of celebrity death.  Or rather, I can bring her a smile no matter what we're going through.  Or most likely, she knows that I am the one person who would help her bury a body based on the sheer amount of blackmail she has on me, so she keeps me around.

Whatever the reason, I am grateful that JP decided to put up with me.  And if you have a friend that means everything to you, be sure that you let them know, and throw a few Whitney jokes in for good measure.

To all of my friends, know that I am listening to  I Will Always Love You while smiling into some wine because you are all in my life. Happy Belated Valentine's Day!

And if you will excuse me,  I have some hard-boiled eggs to go spin....