My Best Friend-I Just Met-For Five Minutes-And It Was Dark

Disclaimer-This is no one any of you know.

My Best Friend-I Just Met-For Five Minutes-And It Was Dark

Say what you will about social media, and an awful lot has been said, but there are advantages despite the dire warning we are becoming increasingly isolated by our false sense of belonging. I for one am “clinically addicted” to it. I say “clinically addicted” because my career in the political arena is nothing but social media. Which is how I met my new best friend.

It was an introduction, of sorts, by several mutual friends, who after we agreed to “like” each other purportedly called in Civil Defense and predicted the end of civilization as we know it. That part I liked. I liked the idea of having a friend who apparently could possibly be worse than I am at flinging hissy fits. (She is almost.) But I liked better the daily interaction that occurs with her friends and my friends and of course us. It’s like having a perpetual sparring/comedy partner-you know like Laverne and Shirley-at your fingertips.

I am afraid to take it much beyond the cyber basement apartment in Milwaukee (see Laverne and Shirley reference). There is something to be said for living purely in the written word. Heck, how many friendships do you have where dialogue can be reviewed and edited before it’s spoken? How witty one can be when one can arrange one’s thoughts ahead of time, carefully crafting the message-the story-the witty reply.

Kenneth Grahame, in his masterpiece “The Wind in the Willows” put it nicely, “Toad, with no one to check his statements or to criticize in an unfriendly spirit, rather let himself go. Indeed, much that he related belonged more properly to the category of what-might-have-happened-had-I-only-thought-of-it-in-time-instead-of-ten-minutes-afterwards. Those are always the best and raciest adventures; and why should they not be truly ours, as much as the somewhat inadequate things that really come off?”

Exactly.

We met once, I mean in person, months after jointly plotting to overthrow the government, expel ill-mannered Yankees from the city, and crowning Julia Reed the Queen of Our Order. It was kinda weird. I didn’t know what to say and she seemed hesitant and it all deteriorated into a, er, let’s get together some time-which we never did. We are both people of the written word-although I’m quite certain we can hold our own in any verbal debate. We just choose to choose our words carefully. Now, that in no way means choosing decorum or good sense. It just means well edited for the best possible style.

One day we might really throw a Julia Reed party, but even that has its hazards. I mean we could get into an argument about table decorations and flowers and how martini glasses should be utilized. She might think I drink too much and I might think she obsesses about political hacks and it could just ruin a perfectly good friendship.

I think we’ll just stick to the Sally Field method of relationships, “You like me! You really like me”. At least you mashed that button.

I Miss Erma

I miss Erma Bombeck.  I have made her my patron saint - even if the church won’t.  Not to diss Mother Theresa, Our Lady of Lourdes or Joan of Arc.  I just miss Erma.  She articulated my story when I couldn’t.  She made me laugh despite the generation gap. She used her teeth to untangle the shoelaces of a toddler who had “peed” on them all day.  She ate stale peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she found in couch cushions because it was easier than a trip to the trash can.  She talked dirty to her house plants and they died.  She poured chocolate sauce on cottage cheese and felt rebellious.  She threw her hotel room key to Tom Jones, only later to discover it was the key to the deep freeze.  She said it was okay to just tolerate your kids, to only sometimes love your husband and to keep fighting for equal pay. Erma said all these things we wish we had said, even when we didn’t even know we should be thinking them.

Where are the Erma icons?  Where are the Erma-in-your-pocket patron saint medallions?  Why can’t I stick a plastic Erma on the dash board of my car?  Where is Erma?  Erma’s memory is dying and my generation needs to get its butt in gear and bring her back. 

Erma was more than a one woman spokesperson for mothers. She was a leader, a sister, a mother for all of us.  She put leftovers in little plastic containers, knowing no one would ever eat them, just to be frugal.  She dreamed of her own convertible and wearing shiny lip gloss like Marlo Thomas.  Instead she got a station wagon and school pick up duty with detours to the vet.  She wanted to play, but the dog had to be neutered, the cleaners needed to give back pressed clothes, the lawn mower repair shop missed her and the grocery store wasn’t going to visit itself.  She wrote columns and books and earned a paycheck, all the while taking numerous calls from children fighting over whose turn it was to do the dishes. She, more than anyone other woman in recent history, was the true definition of a woman. 

You don’t even have to be a mother to appreciate Erma.  You had a mother.  When you get all grown up you realize what your mom did for you.  At least most of us do, even if it may not have appeared to be perfect at the time.  Now that I’m all grown up, I realize what Erma did for me.  She made it okay to be a mom, even a working mom.  She made it okay to feel lonely and isolated.  She made it okay to want to run away from home at forty.  She made it okay to walk into your kids room at night and remember why you love them.  She made it okay if some days you didn’t like them.  She is gone and I am lost.  Who will lead us out of the wilderness of wash day? 

The religious right tells us we can’t work and be good mothers.  Erma was a staunch Catholic and worked.  The left tells us we can’t be mothers and fulfilled as women.  Erma fought for the Equal Rights Amendment.  Women today still only make seventy cents on the dollar compared to our male colleagues. 

Erma transcended left and right.  Erma made her own way.  Erma paved the way for me and my fellow moms to work, to mother, to be human.  Her spirit is with us when we get texts in the middle of board meetings from frantic children who forgot chemistry homework and need it brought immediately to school.  Erma didn’t even have a cell phone. She is with us even now as we work to cure cracked heels and strengthen weak nails that come from lack of sleep and stress.  She undergirds us as we work for less, give more and still volunteer. 

I pray to Erma at night.  Jesus just wouldn’t understand. 

“Erma,” I say, “Grant me the energy to love, to work, to pretend to care, to care and to survive.” 

Erma always answers me,

 “Stretch marks and cracked heels are a Stigmata, be proud.  Dark circles under your eyes from children who don’t sleep are the marks of beauty.  Cottage cheese is better with fudge sauce.  And, my child, car pool duty is a get out of hell free card.  Good work my good and faithful woman!  Up here we all look good in two piece bathing suits and fluorescent lights are banned.  Your rewards are laid up in heaven and they are calorie free.” 

As I lay down to sleep - until a child finds me - all I can think is… I hope so Erma, I sure hope so. And, I miss you Erma. We all do.