Posts Tagged ‘sock monkey’

Letters Are Love

November 18, 2014

Made out of paper.

Hugs sent to you in the mail.

Not e-mail.

No, the real deal, the postman rings twice sort of deal.

I got the most amazing and unexpected card and gift from my best friend in Wisconsin and a gorgeous little necklace with a chopper bicycle on it.

My friend knows me.

Knows me well.

“Well, honey, I mean, I think they’re cute, but you may not think so,” she said as she stirred the giant hurricane glass at Jolly Bob’s Jerk Joint in Madison.

We were there to have my best friends bachelorette party.

“NO PENIS CRAP,” was her only demand for the party.

No penis straws, hats, pins, jewelry, drinking accoutrement.

But I couldn’t help myself when I saw the tiny wind up penis at the counter of the wildly vanilla sex shop on Williamson Street in the Gateway Mall (folks think Good Vibrations is pretty vanilla, they have never been to this store in Madison, beaded curtains and feather dusters and all).

I hid it in my hand and then wound it up to hop across the table toward the bachelorette.

She rolled her eyes.

“I said no penis’,” she might have flicked it over with a fingernail, I don’t recall, but I do recall laughing, and feeling how wonderful it was to be a part of this group of women who were just amazing and I felt like the outsider still, my odd duck self, a little band apart.

And every time I did, my friend would reel me in and make me feel one of the girls, wanted, appreciated, loved.

Again and again and again.

All the while giving me the utmost of shit.

I saw a sock monkey today in a mural on the side of the Community Thrift Store on Valencia Street and it made me think of her.

I almost sent her a photograph, but for years, I mean years, I have been trying to live down the notoriety of the night, the bachelorette party and the personification of my personality, that like my Auntie Bubba moniker, I have not quite been able to live down.

“No, come on, tell me, you can’t not tell me,” I said, demanding an answer.

One friend was an owl, because of how his hair tufted up in funny spots, so he was enduringly called “Owly.”

Another friend was a little turtle.

My best friend was a strawberry.

Of course she was, all pink and roses and fair skin and blonde hair, blue eyes and her heart-shaped face, she was, a pretty as a berry in a bowl of heavy cream, a strawberry.

“I want to know,” I repeated drinking down some of the aged rum in my glass, heady with the jerk chicken and the warm night, the smell of the rum wafting up, the hurricane candles warm in their red globes.

“Well, alright, and I repeat, I think they’re cute, but you, well, you’ve always reminded me of a sock monkey with your big red lips.”

“A sock monkey!”

My friend screamed with laughter at the crestfallen look on my face.

In my wildest imaginings I could never have put it down to that, a sock monkey, I was a sock monkey.

Fucking great.

Big red lips and all.

“Your mouth does scream blow job,” my friend laughed harder, tears streaming down her face.

I had gotten my comeuppance for having the audacity to be the only girl at the bachelorette party who had brought a penis party favor.

I was forever now the pornographic sock monkey.

My dear friend has been delightful enough to never let it go.

I still get a ribbing once in a while, a Christmas card with a sock monkey snow angel on it, or she’ll ask me to take a photograph next to a giant sock monkey at some boutique store we happen to be walking by on a rare visit back to Wisconsin.

“No.”

“No, I will not,” I say and cross my arms with a huff of annoyance.

My mouth twitching with a mixture of bemused irritation and pure love.

If she wanted it bad enough, I would take pictures of myself with sock monkeys.

I would do just about anything for her.

Scratch that.

I would do anything for her.

She is my person.

She has been there through the thick and the very scary and dark thin.

So when I got home today and saw a package sitting next to my door that had her name on it, I was surprised and gleeful.

Who doesn’t like getting a package in the mail?

It was thin, a bubble mailer, a card fell out.

I read it, I got tears on my face, god I love my friend so much and I am so grateful for her.  She saved my life, literally and figuratively and then literally again, and I owe her everything.

Yet.

She takes the time to write me a card and let me know that even with three boys and a husband and a full-time job and a house and it’s already snowing in Wisconsin life, she takes the time to send me something so small and dear and sweet.

I swoon with the magic of it.

That I get to have people like this in my life is such a blessing.

It’s not Thanksgiving yet.

Yet I have so much to be grateful and thank full for.

I am overwhelmed with love and good tidings and friends.

Blessed I am.

Graced.

And well accessorized.

I will be wearing my new necklace on the morrow.

And I may even make my way to Sycamore Street in the Mission District to take a picture of myself next to a flying sock monkey.

I did mean it when I said I would do anything for her.

 

 

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