At least that’s when I think this photo was taken. Maybe 1972?

This is me (on the left) and Cheryl. Speedos, hot dogs, swim club. What more could we ask for?

Wait, let me answer that question. A life-long friendship. A memorable 8th grade visit to the horrors of Nature’s Classroom. High school years when we were up to no good. College years spent sharing wardrobe staples (rather than fighting over the last Esprit long black cotton skirt in our size? We split the cost and shared it). Matron of honor duties at each others’ weddings.

But Cheryl? Dude? About that maid of honor business. As you know, I spent a good part of my night going through pictures. I found pictures of me in a poufy pink number at your wedding… and pictures of you in a sexy black sheath at my wedding. Girlfriend, what’s up with that?

Not that it matters. How can I hold a grudge when I’ve got pictures and pictures and pictures like these?

And by the way, how much do you think the City of Stamford paid us to talk about your hair? Because clearly, we were deeply engrossed in that conversation. Who can be bothered looking at the water when there’s so many important topics to discuss?

I love you girlfriend!

The last time I went fishing, I was 12 and accompanied by four other 12 year old girls. It was my friend Midi’s birthday party. She lived on this completely sick horse farm in Darien, and there was a pond across the street stocked with who knows what kind of fish. It’s safe to say these fish of indeterminate origin were unprepared for an encounter with a small army of pre-teen girls. It disappoints my oldest son to no end that I don’t remember more of this story, but this is roughly how it went. One of us was holding the fishing rod as the lure and hook dangled salaciously (well, to a fish, I guess) in the murky water. We were surprised flabbergasted rendered incapable of any kind of communication other than shrieking when we actually caught a fish.

I don’t remember how we got the fish off the hook. I want to say I was brave enough to grab its body and hold it still as I gently removed the hook from its mouth and tossed it back into the murky depths. But I’m pretty sure I’d be making that part up. I do remember the whole experience was enough to keep us up chattering into the late hours (it was a sleepover) as we played Titanic, a fun and extremely involved 1970s board game I never came across anywhere else besides Midi’s house.

When we were lifeguards, my friend Joe and I feared hearing one thing more than anything else: “Hey lifeguard, I’ve got a fish hook in my eye. I think I need some first aid.” We developed a Universal Symbol for Fish Hook in Eye (with your forefinger slightly curled, stick it just under your brow bone and hold on tight while making your most grotesque facial expression) and waited vigilantly for our first victim patient. Of course, we also spent our time waiting for a commercial airliner to fall out of the sky and (conveniently) into the Long Island Sound so we could see exactly how long it would take us to row out a few miles to grab all those survivors. I can safely attribute our love for the macabre to being bored out of our skulls.

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