My friends are perpetually late.  All of them, if you can believe it, but especially the Rossettis.  And the truth is, it may very well be my favorite thing about them.

There was a package on my desk this morning – one whose return address was stateside.  I tore it open like an anxious child and laughed out loud at the “Happy Birthday!” card that sat atop a bunch of goodies.  The card played “Brick House” when I opened it and I admit to shamelessly breaking it down in my classroom.

I dug through rice krispie treats, cheeze its, and cereal and I marveled at the way a finger painting by a four year old could rip me wide open.

At last, I picked up the only thing that remained – a compass.  The sting of tears almost overcame me as I watched the needle dance toward North.

North toward home, like Willy said. 

And I realized then as my tears fell like the Manizales rain, that Ben and Lindsay might have missed my birthday by the better part of four months, but their timing has never been more perfect.

And I don’t go out.  Ever. 

Except for Friday night when one of the women in my adult English class invited me over for dinner and I went even though she was confident I would “back out” (phrasal verb of the week). 

I stayed until midnight.

And then there was Saturday when I actually left my apartment and went to a bar(ish) that has the best view in the city at 3:00 in the afternoon.  The man behind the counter played Van Halen. 

And “Right Then” (it was “Right Now” then thus making it “Right Then” now) I got so excited I nearly peed myself.  “Right Then” (now) was followed by Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” to which I danced shamelessly.  Just like Ada and I did in high school and I wanted to cry, but I didn’t.

I was home in my pjs by 6:30 and lovin’ life. 

Until Jill called at 6:45 and wanted to go to dinner at the pizza place around the corner.  I said “um, okay” because I love her that much.  And the pizza’s awesome.

As I walked out the door, the nephew of the woman that invited me to the dinner on Friday that I didn’t back out of called. 

“Um, yeah.  Jill and I are going to Pizza y Pasta.  Sure.  Uh huh.  Yeah.  Okay.  See you there.”

And he came and it was fun and we laughed a lot.

Then, I went with him to sit at a table in another bar (no “ish” it was SO a bar) where we talked and laughed and danced until 3:00.  That’d be 3 o’clock in the A. frickin’ M.  And I didn’t even hate it.

Until I woke up promptly at 7:00 (in the A. frickin’ M.) on Sunday, didn’t take a nap all day, went to bed at 11:00 (what the?) and woke up for a run at 5:00. 

What the heck is wrong with me?!  I like NOT having a life so much better. 

And, no, to all of you ángelitos who worry about my future.  I don’t like the boy.  No, he’s not a prospect, and if he was I’d announce it here so that you could stand and applaud.  I promise.

But he’s not.  He’s just really, really funny.

And all I am is really, really sleepy.

This time last year I was saying goodbye to the only other blonde in Manizales. 

We were both bound for Bogotá and then on toward home.  Home being good ole Mississippi for me and where The Muddy River starts up in Minnesota somewhere for her.  We both acted tough on the first leg of the trip, laughing, eating and booty shakin’ through half of Colombia and then the hour came.  The hour when she boarded one plane and I boarded another. 

Truthfully, I don’t know if she shed a tear, but I reckon she did.  And me?  I cried like a child and missed her before she was gone.  I’m better now, though, I think.  Because instead of that teary goodbye, I remember six months here with her.

She ran my first Saturday run with me when I was training for the MS Blues Marathon and we laughed about how long it took us and the fact that our thighs rubbed together more than they used to.  She was my movie buddy and my translator and a picture of the me that I’d like to be someday. 

We’d sit over a dinner of 200 or 5,000 calories and talk about how the world beats you up sometimes and I promise, she seemed okay with it.  In her 30 year old wisdom she’d tell me about how the hurting helps you heal and how the healing makes you stronger and I envied her view of the battle.

Then there were times when she said all the things that I was thinking, but never had the nerve to say.  She talked fearlessly about lonliness and hopelessness and getting to know herself.  She talked about girls whose pants were too tight and boys that couldn’t think past what happens after dinner and she talked about how both of those things could keep a woman from loving completely. 

Then, inevitably some salsa song would come on and she’d be singing at the top of her lungs.  And if I was lucky, some Colombian man would ask her to dance and I’d sit and watch as she matched every step, her hips shaking like the wanna be Latina that she is.  She swayed and sweated and soaked away the world in Colombia’s finest boxed rums and sweetest smells. 

Un olor a tabaco y chanel
Una mezcla de miel y café.

And somewhere between the popcorn, the Spanish, and stories about boxers I found another sister.  A sistah, I mean, because that’s how she says it.  “You and me, we’re just different.  We’re ghetto girls gettin’ it done.” 

So, even though she’s stateside and I’m here, we keep dreamin’.  About trips around the world and starting schools in forgotten places.  We dream about boys that have their acts together and girls that aren’t afraid to be without them. 

We write obscenely long emails about bad decisions and horrific grammar and the effects of aspartame on the aging woman’s waistline.  And we remind each other that it’s okay to be crazy as long as you aren’t there alone.  And I’m not because she lives right next door.

Here’s to you, Ames, my Amyta la mexícana, de una moníta a la otra moníta.

I wish you were here.

He’s versatile like that.

Brother reads this here blog every once in a while.  When he’s got a layover or some free time (which is rare), he’ll sit down and catch up on posts.

He called me today and asked about Lauren’s “SO inappropriate!!” comment that was in reference to the he-thinks-he’s-subtle Casanova.  Let it be stated that the girls and I don’t doubt for a second who left that shadiness in the comments section.

Moving on.

He and I laughed for a bit about the humor of the not so mysterious Casanova and then he asked how I’d been.  “Tired,” I said, “really tired.”

“Really?  How can you be tired?  You’re a school teacher.”

Ahem.

Bet you his IRA that he’s never been in an elementary building on Halloween.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Then I went off to school and met the girls that changed my idea of friendship forever.  Girls that taught me about loving unconditionally and how loyalty fights better and stronger than any heavy weight champ on the planet.  Girls that took me dancing, kept me up late, and blessed me with the knowledge of good naps and  box fans.  Girls that challenged my ideals and graciously helped me to put on the freshmen fifteen (or forty).

Lauren taught me about work ethic and how sometimes you have to be by yourself to get things done.  She swam with me before the sun came up and she left notes on my door and books on my bed and every once in a while she’d play the piano for me and I think I knew then that there really was a Somewhere over the rainbow.

Ann was always the one with the spunk begging me to go out, to see people, to do things that were out of my realm of comfort and to wear mascara while I did them.  She made me stand up for myself and believe in myself and when I was lying at rock bottom, she was standing over me in a pink and leopard print halter top telling the psycho that left me there to back up or die. 

And then there was Kathryn.  Sweet Kathryn who kept me grounded and sane and laughing at imaginary kittens and the new girlfriends of old boyfriends.  She wrote notes to me during chapter meetings and was marching right behind me when I figured out that I wasn’t made for the sorority life.  And when I came home from Australia and said I was moving to Oxford because I wasn’t strong enough to go back to Starkville, she said, “Then I’m coming, too.” 

I don’t remember exactly when I started writing down the list, but I know I did it because of them. 

Maybe it was in a dorm room on the sixth floor of Rice or maybe it was when we were making folders for all of our travel plans.  Or it could have been when we went on that scandalous trip to the beach.  Or one night in that purple Accord with its windows down.  Or in Granny and Pop Pop’s house on a long weekend.  On top bunks and futons or in the midst of The Intervention.  At the reservoir eating sticky buns.  In Derek and Craig’s living room floor.  Over bread pudding at Oby’s. 

So, here’s what I wrote down on some random day when I was 18 or so.  A list of all the things I wanted to do before I turned 30.  My little List o’ Dreams.

Back then, 30 sure seemed far away.

Because if I don’t some folks might die today and that’s just not becoming of a lady, now is it?

A list should suffice as the aforementioned deep, cleansing breath.

• I cannot expect people to value my time as much as I do.
• Manizales weather does NOTHING for my hair.
• It’s fall in Mississippi and I’m not there.
• I should learn to say no more often.
• There is no Sonic Diet Coke in Colombia.
• The Virus o’ Death stole my Spanish.
• I could eat my weight in biscuits today and y’all, that’s a lot of biscuits.

Thank you, bloggy friends, for the diarreah of the mouth that you just allowed me.  Which, I assure you, is so very much better than the diarreah o’ death of last week’s glory.  Although, I did lose eight pounds. 

It’s not the diet of choice, but hey, whatever works.

Nonetheless, I’m off to the Amazon!

It’s October break here and three friends and I are headed out in the morning at a not-so-bright 3:00.  IN THE A.M.!

I have no clue where we’re staying or what we’re doing or what to pack or how my Spanish works in the wee hours of the morning, but I’m going.

And, I promise, I’ll blog it all when I get back.  (That’d be Saturday for those of you that check up on me.)

I’ll blog the Amazon, and how McDonald’s get props from me, and how blue paper thongs aren’t meant to be shared, and how I’m a sucker for the bad kids, and I’ll introduce you to a new bloggy friend.

Doesn’t that just make you guys all giddy with excitement inside?

I knew it would.

I’ve never liked Valentine’s Day, really.

First of all, shouldn’t you be all mushy and romantic everyday? Commercialized holidays shouldn’t tell us when to buy flowers or say nice things, should they? Fair enough, I’m probably just bitter and against relationships altogether.

Generally I wear all black on February 14th, eat chocolate for all three meals, and have ice cream with my mom to end that dreadful day. As Alexander would say, “It is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day!”

So, when I heard about Love and Friendship Day, a day in September that Colombians celebrate with great fervor — “a holiday that really is all about friendship”— I nearly puked. Do I really have to have two Valentine’s Days? One is enough torture for any woman to stand! Honestly!

And then-

Every day of the week I got a happy from students, parents, and coworkers. We added decorations to the room daily and my desk was covered in chocolates, sweets, a puzzle, a Colombian t-shirt, red paper hearts, even a poster with my name in glitter. I admit it, by Friday I, too, was all about love and friendship. I even wore pink and the lip gloss one of my angels gave me! I went home that afternoon with two dozen roses, a bouquet of daisies, and a newfound appreciation for holidays.

There really is something special about love and friendship, isn’t there?

Friendship keeps us grounded but never discourages us from seeing our dreams taking flight. Friendship assures that we never cry alone or eat pizza in solitude. It provides a sounding board and two arm hugs, fits of laughter, a work out buddy, and an “is he right for me?” radar. It’s throwing a frisbee in the dead of winter and driving in a green van listening to Journey headed for the beach.

Friendship is memories, stories, secrets, and passing books along state lines or oceans. Friendship is saying, “Go! Go! I’ll send you mail.” Friendship is lasting and real and a lifetime full of treasures.

And love.

Love is Momma’s biscuits and her waiting up for me. Love is the sound of Daddy’s tractor and the smell of his barn. Love is watching them ride down the driveway together in an old blue truck on a Sunday afternoon. Love is watching movies with my Sisser and seeing her as a counselor at Camp Lake Stephens. It’s my brother sending “diet coke could kill you” emails.

Love is looking up at your grandmother’s funeral and seeing a crowd that is there because your heart is broken. Love is campers that grow up and still call you their favorite and students that think you’re a rockstar. Love is Mamaw patching my favorite jeans for the 52nd time and making sweet potato pie.

Love is a choice, an action, a sacrifice, a precious, precious gift. Love is my Jesus, a cross, His grace.

My friends, my family, I love you and I think maybe I’ll wear red on February 14th this year.

With the greatest of affection,

Emily

This post was originally written as an email on September 22, 2007.

Seriously, these are two of my very favorite people.

She was my assistant my first year teaching. She’s organized and honest and she loves Jesus bigger and better than anyone I know. Part of her heart is in Africa and her car is always a disaster. She used to write me little notes on the bottom of my calendar that said things like, “Think happy thoughts. Cheeseburgers, Jesus, me…” And she’d leave music playing on my computer when I couldn’t sing on my own. We talked about missions and orphans and how we wanted to change the world. We used to sit about twenty feet from each other and pass notes back and forth like junior high girls to make bus duty pass more quickly. She drew pictures of mud huts and sunsets and I wrote about waves and words and somehow those little notes changed my life for the better. SHE has changed my life for the better.

And then there’s him. He loves her like Christ does. He’s patient and good and he sits and plays his guitar while she and I talk for hours. He’s a rock star in the making. He reads books and then mails them to me and he writes to me and says, “The wife says hello” because he knows it could be a week before I hear from her. He’s a godly example and he records old hymns and Christmas music and then he gives them to me. He’s witty and gentle and today he’s going to be a daddy.

And I don’t think there’s a luckier little girl in the whole wide world.

Happy Birthday, baby. I’ll see you soon.

There will always be a part of me
Nobody else is ever gonna see
But you and me
A little girl
My Gracie girl

from “Gracie” by Ben Folds