CHEERS,

To the girlfriends who are in bed sick with the flu, but know you are putting your cat to sleep, and call another girlfriend to assign the task of calling you and walking you through the hard, last hour.

To the girlfriend who took on the task, and wouldn’t let you cry alone.

To the girlfriends who support your decision that you MUST buy new kitchen chairs to lessen the grief.  Girlfriend math works differently than actual math.  They see the value in buying chairs you cannot afford, shoes which only match one outfit, and purses that match nothing but your mood.

To the girlfriends you call when your husband is out of town, and you’ve made the ridiculous decision to pull out an 8 year old dusty bottle of rum and rent “Magic Mike” after you get the kids to bed.  You know what goes well with grief? Rum and bad cinema. Now I know where the phrase perfectly awful comes from.  Sometimes things are both perfect and awful, all at the same time. I watched it twice, just to confirm that data. It was for scientific validity.  You understand.

To the girlfriends who laugh until their sides hurt when you tell them you have a hangover on a random Wednesday, and hell, it was worth it, because who knew Channing Tatum could dance like that?  Who knew anyone could dance like that? No judgements.  They are laughing too hard to judge.  And making you promise next time you’ll invite them over.

If in 1 week you lose your favorite pet while your husband is gone for many days on business, and the next week contains 2 sick kids, one with the world’s nastiest case of tonsillitis which keeps her home for 5 straight days…a high-5 to the girlfriends who know to call you and make you laugh until you almost pee your pants.  You don’t need a casserole.  You don’t need to hang in there.  You need to laugh until you cry.  Your girlfriends know this.

They’ll forgive you for the 2 week stretch you’re a terrible listener.  They know a dark place when they see one.

And when you’ve decided you can’t shine a light down any more throats or hand out any more Miralax to any more constipated kids, when you can’t pick up any more Kleenex or call the pediatrician one more time, and when you’re glad you didn’t buy those expensive chairs because they’d be destroyed by now…and the cabin fever of being stuck inside with sick children for 5 straight days has forced you to consider stealing an identity and disappearing into the Rockies (I hear it’s lovely this time of year), and you drive yourself to the grocery with the intention of buying a cherry pie and eating it in the parking lot alone?

Your girlfriends can hear you playing really bad old mixed tapes from across the city, and they bring the fork.