I went to lunch with my friend, Frances, today. She came and picked up the boys and me in her minivan and we were off. We ordered take-out from our favorite Thai restaurant and took it to McDonalds where we fed our kids McDeep-fried chicken McParts because we love them and want them to grow healthy and strong. No, wait. Because we love them, but want them to shut up while we visit.
Frances is my Horrible Story Friend. If either one of us hear a horrible story about a dead baby, a creepy piano teacher, a freak accident, a dirty politician, a desperate housewife, a bad deal, a natural disaster, or a wardrobe malfunction, we feel compelled to immediately share it with each other. I can’t tell you how many hours we have spent horrifying one another to the point that you’d expect our eyes to free themselves from the sockets and our jaws to permanently dislocate. Or for someone nearby to smack us if we say, “Nuh-uhhhhhhhhh!” one more time. This is one of many reasons why neither of us would make a very good therapist. That, and the fact that we have no educational training for it.
Today, Frances’s horrible story was about her depressed sister who keeps tattle-telling on her coworkers, but can’t figure out why she doesn’t have any friends. My horrible story was the continuing saga of the new car purchase. (Oh yes, my friends, it goes onnnnnnn.) Not our best stories, by any means, but pretty good/horrible for a beautiful Friday afternoon.
So, tell me, do you have a Horrible Story Friend?
