Tonight I attend the rooftop farewell party for my insanely funny and jocular Irish friend who is departing for distant shores next month with her family.
Our daughters are like bagels and lox and have been stuck together like glue since the second grade.
I think their separation anxiety is on a level that we as adults cannot even hope to understand.
Still, tonight I will stand next to all eight women in attendance wearing the highest heels I own and give a toast to our buddy, the Irish Wonder.
I’ll tell stories about how she has some sort of illegal pharmaceutical racket going in her kitchen with medicine flown in from Thailand (her former home) that she shoves down your throat when you are looking a little peaked, insisting it’s totally safe and you should stop asking so many questions.
I’ll tell everyone how much I’ll miss the words “NO, wait for it!” every time she tells an hour-long story and is no where near the punchline.
There will be mention of the endless cups of coffee, the three weeks of quitting smoking and the time by the pool.
I may or may not talk about how many times she’s propositioned a day by random men who offer to take her to some mythical villa on a hilltop in some exotic local that can’t be verified.
But mostly, I’ll probably just have too much to drink and cry like the wimp that I am.
Then I’ll take off my shoes because I can’t walk and I’ll look like somebody’s child whose babysitter backed out at the last-minute.
Seriously, I don’t think there’s one of them under 5’11 WITHOUT shoes.
Farewell good buddy and keep in touch.
*I’ll post the pictures tomorrow to prove that I am not fibbing about the height*