How to lose a friend in ten days or less...

How to lose a friend in ten days or less…

We have enough articles and cute little coffee table books that sing the praises of friendship. But what about that friend we are dying to get rid of? You know the one - don’t deny it – the one who at the very mention of her name your eye starts to twitch. The very sight of her car pulling into your driveway actually has you considering faking your own death. The one who bugs you so bad you can’t stand her children just by association. Help is on the way. I have come up with some surefire ways to get rid of unwanted friends.

Ask her if she’s gained weight. Look closely at her hips and her rear end as if you are trying to solve a mysterious math equation. Tell her it’s okay, that we all let ourselves go when we get to that age. And would she consider botox?

Ask her to host a scrapbook party at her house – every time you see her. Then tell her exactly how you want it done and offer to clean her house for her, with a look that says you remember the last time you were there and your kid tripped on one of her dust bunnies. The key here is to look at her like she’s a dog with three legs.

Call her every day and leave really long messages on her answering machine that always start with, “Oops, the machine just caught me off, let me finish up. I’ll be really quick.” Then leave a new phone number at the very end of the message and say it real fast and mumble it so she can’t get it and has to listen to the entire message again.

Pop up in her bushes on Thursday morning when she comes out to get the paper. Tell her you were just hanging out.

Send her spam emails at least three times a day, with videos and pictures attached, with messages telling her to light a candle and pass this on to twenty-five other people in the next twenty-four hours. Accuse her of being the devil’s spawn if she doesn’t answer. Attaching a virus always helps.

Tell her you want to sit down and talk about where she stands spiritually. This one is particularly effective as it will not only get rid of her, chances are good it will get rid of everyone she knows too.

Loan her money or keep her children as a trade-off deal. You’ll never see her again.

Fake your own death. This can be tricky to pull off, but it’s a permanent solution.

Show her your childbirth video and pause on the placenta while you go answer the phone.

And last, but not least, give her a second chance. Take the love-your-neighbor thing seriously. It’s easy to love the lovable. But it says even more about your character if you’re able to love the unlovable. And, for the record, there’s nothing wrong with loving her from far away.


PS If you’re reading this, you are the good kind of friend - just ignore my picture in the obituary section.

Another Crazy Mommy Moment

It was my first night out as a new mommy – as in no kids. My husband was taking me out to dinner to celebrate our first six months of successful parenting – or maybe the fact that the cable was out and he knew he couldn't watch the game. I didn't care. I was going out. Nothing was going to ruin this night for me.

I let Junior watch six hours of cartoons while I got ready. I took a bubble bath. I shaved. I bought a cute little black dress that no longer fell into the "little" category, but I didn't care. I even purchased a sexy little thong which rubbed a blister before I was even through applying my mascara. But I left it on. Nothing was going to ruin this night!

I even decided to tackle the overwhelming task of doing something to my breastfed boobs that now hung to my knees and had been attracting National Geographic reporters from all over the country. I bought these cool pasty things you stick in your bra that looked something like a raw chicken breast, but did in fact make my chest look perky and take attention off my rear end which had grown to the point that it now occupied another zip code and was at the moment making some pretty interesting bottom music due to the late afternoon snack of raw broccoli combined with the thong. It was as if I had invented a new rubber band instrument. I'm thinking of getting a patent.

I put on my highest heels. Took them off. Put them back on, and reminded myself that beauty is pain and waited for my husband to pick me up. I was so happy. I kissed Junior, kissed the babysitter, and ran out the door to meet my husband. Okay, walked fast. The heels were really high.

He didn't notice my heels. He didn't notice the dress. He didn't notice that I was now limping because I had a blister in between my butt cheeks that was starting to get infected. He was too busy trying to find a parking spot up front at Burger Bart's Buffet where all the food is displayed around the perimeter of the restaurant and who needs a waiter when you can get up and get it yourself?

I'm standing there trying to decide between macaroni and cheese or assisted suicide, crammed in between my husband who is scouting out the nearest TV and a sweet older gentleman who seemed to be staring a little too intently at my cleavage. Looking back, I understand why. Because the miraculous perky pseudo-breast I had tucked inside my dress was coming dislodged. Of course, I didn't know this, which is probably why it generated such a rapt audience at the salad bar. Especially when I sneezed and the breast popped out of my dress and landed in the cottage cheese.

I was mortified. Do I quickly pick it up and stuff it back in? Do I put it on my plate beside the cherry tomatoes? Do I leave it there and act like I had no idea I had lost a booby on the salad bar? Sometimes fate has a way of working things out. This wasn't one of those times.

I felt another sneeze coming on – apparently allergic to the new body splash I bought for this special occasion – and the magnitude of the sneeze caused something to snap. The thong. Apparently it simply couldn't hold up under the pressure. Personally, I don't blame it.

I'm not really sure if there's a scientific explanation for it, or if fate just couldn't pass this opportunity up, but the thong snapped, broke, and went flying through the air whereupon it slapped the kind old gentleman across the face and sort of hung there like a birthday party streamer. And that was the last sight I saw as I went running from the restaurant. Okay, walking fast - those heels were really high. My husband never noticed a thing.

I've never been back to Bart's Burger Buffet where they had to have the salad bar and the old man fumigated. The high heels are collecting dust in the top of my closet and I haven't worn a thong since because my rear end still has nightmares of the whole sordid experience. I have an anniversary coming up. Hubby wants to take me out to dinner. I'm thinking I'll go look for something sexy.