Our friendship began on a flight to New York in the Fall of 2003. I had hired her that summer even the interview committee was unimpressed with her one page resume. A recent university graduate in a black suit with a too-bright yellow blouse that drew attention to the dullness of the other candidates – and the members of the committee – she was open and earnest with an obvious passion for the teaching profession. She couldn’t wait to be part of it. If you’re a school principal, she’s the teacher you dream of, the kind whose classroom door is always open. She was humble and asked for advice and would sit in my office and have no qualms about telling me that she’d sit there until I gave her whatever help she needed to be the best she could be. She really did. Together, we spearheaded an impressive reform effort that would result in a school Arizona could be proud of. Working so closely together, we became like sisters, there for each other professionally and personally – even when it was difficult.
We spent the next 20 years, working in public education, raising hell, splitting appetizers, consigning clothes, buying handbags, coloring our hair and inventing hashtags.
It’s her birthday today, and it occurs to me that we used to exchange cards and gifts on special days. I don’t know when or why we stopped this practice, because we were masters. One of our money-making ideas that never materialized was something along the lines of birthday-in-a-bag which entailed a quick quiz with someone stuck for what to buy someone else, and then off we’d go and fill the bag with the perfect gifts. For someone like me, this would be the “Sunday by the Pool” bag with a beach towel, cute flip-flops, half a dozen trashy magazines, sunblock, and a written guarantee that drinks would be delivered. You get the idea.
In Arizona, the traffic on Interstate 10 led us to conduct much of our relationship almost entirely by phone, a satisfactory strategy just in case one of us ever decided to move to Mexico or if a pandemic would turn the world upside down and force us to live on Zoom. When she called me the other day for no particular reason – but also before her first cup of coffee which meant I did all the talking – I asked her if she was ever going to turn 40, and she reminded me that happened three years ago. The secret to staying young, I suppose, is time and distance.
So here it is. An updated love letter to my best friend:
Dear Amanda,
Happy Birthday. We’ll go out for dinner when you visit me in Mexico – and you will visit me in Mexico. I can almost imagine Ken looking down from wherever he might be, incredulous that you are over forty. A heartbeat ago, he was asking if you were ever going to be 30. He adored you, and I know of all people on the planet, he would be the most grateful for your friendship to me. For cooking all those healthy meals for him after the nice heart specialist told him he had that massive aneurysm and for going to the house and finding him because I knew, I just knew – even though I was on the other side of the world – that he was dead, thank you. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to find him. He knew there was no one better to break the news to me or to take care of the aftermath that somehow included baking for my mourning family those mini chicken pot pies in individual ramekins and thereby rendering all my other friends clueless about what to bring that would be most comforting. It was like having the Barefoot Contessa and Mary Poppins on speed-dial. He knew that only you would keep me from falling apart. He was right.
Of course he was right.
For shielding my Sophie from so much bad news, like the time I left her with you so I could go listen to the Cancer Navigator lady tell me that, yes, I absolutely had breast cancer but it absolutely wasn’t a death sentence. For carrying her on your swimmer’s shoulders when she was too tired to wait in line to see Santa; for the Dr. Seuss cake you baked for her high school graduation party, thank you. For trusting her to babysit your own little girls and for being her first professional reference, thank you. And, for “helping” her pass online high school Chemistry even though we both know she will never need it (except to answer a first-round question on Jeopardy – maybe) and for making her feel like she matters – thanks. She loves you.
For reminding me that it could always be worse – it could always be worse – and that the heart wants what the heart wants, thank you. For being judgmental but never judging me, thank you. For waiting in waiting rooms and at the beauty salon, thank you. For putting up with my airport behavior and pretending you understand why someone from Northern Ireland would rant like that when going through airport security. For always letting me have the aisle seat because you somehow believe that I deserve it. For the thousands of miles you have traveled across America with me and for always driving the rental car even when they give you the fancy truck and you have to get a pillow to sit on because #petite, thank you. And, for driving down strange highways while I sing along with whatever’s on the playlist Todd has created for us, completely oblivious to helpful signs, thank you. For always watching my favorite movies so you’ll get it when I quote huge chunks of dialogue . . .
“I’m not going to be ignored, Dan.”
For the concerts – most recently, Jack White in Mexico City when I gatecrashed your wedding anniversary trip. For Ryan Adams and James Blunt and Tom Petty and Bob Seger and Bruce Springsteen and the Hold Steady and Steve Earle, especially that night at the MIM when Shawn Colvin got really annoyed with me for monopolizing Mr. Earl who I think would have loved to go shoot pool with us in a dive bar. (“You’re from Belfast? Really? Did you go to Queens? Were you a literature student? I fucking LOVE Seamus Heaney!! Was he your teacher?”) For our shared disdain for The Dave Matthews Band and the unspoken reason why we both hate Coldplay; for that time we took Sophie to see Madonna #haveyouconfessed; for Russell Brand and Kathy Griffin. For adopting a Greyhound named Lola and convincing me that I should as well and for going through the agony when we had to surrender those marvelous dogs. For “the devil of a margarita” – two of them no less – in Santa Fe where it was so cold that we had to buy scarves and gloves at The Gap and drink several Nutty Irishmen and then go see “Love Actually” at the movie theater. #thedevilinside #loveactually #wishyouwerehere
For the lesson plan templates and the trips to the border to do workshops for teachers at our favorite school, for that time the high school Senior told you had a ‘forceful God complex,’ and I laughed instead of telling her not to be disrespectful, thank you. It was funny. For the million dollar ideas, none of which will come remotely close to Expand-a-Fan which I still think will show up on some merch stand after a show; for the hashtags that should have been trending for days, like #sleepingwiththeenemy following one of those nights when your youngest commandeered the bed, for #saysalltherightthings after your Todd told you to let go of the dream after you held up that size 2 dress and wondered aloud if it might still fit, and for never tiring of our but-seriously-who-would-play-you-in-the-movie-of-your-life game, even though it always ends up the same way. I will forever be Meryl Streep in “Falling in Love” and you will be Elizabeth Shue . . . or Jennifer Grey.
For the road trips to San Francisco, San Diego, and Santa Fe and that time we drove to San Francisco because I wanted clam chowder in a bread bowl – and more than once off the deep end – thank you. For always driving the rental car even though your sense of direction was and remains worse than mine. Our out-of-town adventures were mostly work related and mostly led to good things for kids, didn’t they? Well, except that one time we went to Harvard, because we thought it would be like ‘Good Will Hunting’ and I could be Minnie Driver, but we didn’t do the required reading because it was boring and had nothing to do with kids learning. We always found something else to do – like the Fenway Park tour because the bus-driver was Irish and let us in at the very last minute or the mad taxi drive to Yankee Stadium because the Red Sox were playing but we couldn’t get a ticket so we just enjoyed “the atmosphere”; for the Springsteen concert at Shea Stadium or that night, after too many rums at the Rum Boogie Cafe, when we went walking in Memphis – in the pouring rain. Seriously. No coats, no umbrellas and soaked to the skin, we charmed that cute bartender into keeping his restaurant open just for us until 3AM. He even made fried green tomatoes. For sobering up in ways we will never forget at the Lorraine Motel, and for Graceland, down in the jungle room, thank you.
For helping me finish that godawful grant application we were working on the day Tom Petty died. Hours from the deadline, my phone was blowing up with messages like, “Oh no. I’m so sorry” and sad-faced emojis. I thought I’d been fired – again – and that my boss forgot to tell me or something. But no, it was because everybody – except Tom Petty – knew that Tom Petty was my boyfriend and I’d be devastated, especially since I had just seen him perform what would be his final gig at The Hollywood Bowl. The time before that, when he announced his Hypnotic Eye tour with NO STOP in Phoenix, you drove us to San Diego to the opening gig and let me sing out loud the whole way like Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire. #FreeFalling We had everything we needed for a great weekend – gasoline, least three outfits, and an assurance to each other that we would be back to Phoenix the morning after to see our daughters off to school – Sophie’s first day as a high school Senior, and your Olivia’s very first as a pre-schooler. – but we didn’t have a room reservation. We called countless hotels and you thought because one of them ended with “-shire,” that it sounded respectable like a B & B in The Cotswolds. When we found it, near Tijuana – across the street from a Bail Bondsman, nestled between a pawn shop and a “gentleman’s establishment,” – I noticed a transaction taking place between a man and a woman under the eaves. Maybe he just needed change for the soda machine, but probably not. We ended up in Carlsbad. We made it back to Phoenix too, with “beer” still stamped on our hands.
For splitting appetizers – before you discovered you have either Celiacs or the alternative diagnosis proposed by your gastroenterologist, Non-Celiac Gluten Sensitivity (NCGS) – and for splitting the bill and feeling sorry for whoever has to take my order, but then remembering that I will probably discover that they have a degree in Education and, hey presto, you would have a new colleague. For signing my name all the times I forgot my glasses and figuring out the tip. For asking me to come up with a creative justification for the expense when Todd asked how your hair could possibly cost that much to cut and color. The struggle is real. #thestruggleisreal
For pool and poker and pai gow in Vegas. We will forever be only “one away.” For scrapbooks and shopping lists. For buying the same outfits even though you are a “petite” – seriously, you are a petite. For the next best app. For sniglets and code words when we need an exit strategy – #gottago For driving on the wrong side of the road downtown Phoenix and for losing your sense of direction on 7th Street – every time. Every. Single. Time. For considering what not to wear before anything else and for always bringing at least one extra lipstick that will work for me. For ‘anticipating my needs’ and not ever minding that I won’t take no for an answer. I just won’t. For tuning me out while you chop vegetables, and I try to find my train of thought. For the smallest handbag in America to the largest. For never leaving a voice-mail because you know I won’t listen to it, and for never checking the ones I leave for you, because you know I’ll ramble and forget why I called, thank you. Although that last one worries me, because what if I need bail?
For naming your cold sores after people the way the World Meteorological Organization names hurricanes, for still checking out books from the library and reading all the self-help stuff that in turn helps my self. For always bringing an extra lipstick in a shade that works for both of us. For finally developing a poker face for really difficult staff meetings and understanding, now that you’re a principal, with you-know-who running the show in the State Superintendent’s office, why I took Xanax. For taking Scott’s side because you know what I’m like, just as I have always taken Todd’s side (for the same reason) thank you.
For the hours of good advice you know I’ll ignore until later when I’ll tell you, just like Carrie Fisher in “When Harry Met Sally,” “You’re right, you’re right. I know you’re right.”
For showing up, and for being my best friend, thank you. I’ll see you in real life – soon.
Happy Birthday. xo
