My friends are the best. Countless examples, but here's just one:
A few Sundays ago, I managed to slip out for a sweet brunch with my beloved Girl Friday at sparkling Bastille in historic Ballard, where she treated me to gorgeous French toast and countless cups of delicious coffee. Effervescent conversational highlights unfortunately dictated our dining neighbours were occasionally peppered with such outbursts as, "You guys have eight what in your house?!?" "Well, okay... but what about pre-ejac?" and "Do I actually have to come over tomorrow and physically take you to a clinic so you don't have another pregnancy scare for the next five years or so?"
After leaving our poor neighbours to enjoy their meal free of our spirited discourse on firearms, politics, and sex, we wandered a spell, admiring architecture and graffiti in the neighbourhood, and soon found ourselves warming up with more coffee at another cozy spot.
And it was there I received a text from another dear friend, the Cambridge Linguist.
"Hello, Love," it read. "I was wondering if you were free tonight to come with me to Portishead; I have a spare ticket!"
Uh.
The thing was, months ago, when the tickets first went up for presale, British Booty sent out the call, and after discovering it was at a horrendous venue I've so far managed to avoid, and for well over $50 a ticket before exorbitant service charges and tax, I had to decline. And since this was on the exact same day as one where I was out with Girl Friday for most of the morning and early into the afternoon, going would mean not being with the family for the pigmajority of the day, which is our number-one weekend rule.
About to decline, I texted Gorgeous Boy to see his reaction; he was at Home Depot with the kids, getting supplies to keep working on fixing up the crawlspace. I felt guilty. Horribly. Yet I still asked, just in case.
"How much?" was his response.
"How much will I owe you?" I texted the Cambridge Linguist.
"Nothing! It'll be my treat; just buy me a drink or something while we're there! Salon Stallion can't make it as he has some big events coming up, and since he was doing hair for a wedding yesterday, he's too pooped. I'd rather you come, anyway," she responded.
"Go," commanded Boy.
And so I did. After coming home from my date with Girl Friday, we took the dog for a long walk, treated the kids to our favourite Vietnamese restaurant (also in historic Ballard) for magnificent bánh mì, phở, lemongrass sirloin beef salad, and crunchy eggrolls, and still managed to get me home with enough time to shower and dress. With British Booty, her husband Cyber Babe, the Cambridge Linguist, and I piled into the BB/CB shaggin' wagon, we headed down to WaMu Theatre to see what none of us ~ despite our respective longtime love affairs with the band ~ had ever been able to experience.
And there, standing beside me about five people away from the stage barrier, was another gift of the day. A fellow with a beautiful Canon was taking shot after shot of the crowd, the stage. I asked about his camera, and it turned out he was taking pictures for a friend's music blog, to which he is a frequent contributor. Thus, for a lovely while, I ended up enjoying some really wonderful conversation with a very kind and helpful new friend, and I feel terrible because I haven't written him yet... but I will, promise! He generously offered to critique my stuff, answer any questions I had about Photoshop or photography in general, etc. And with the great help of the Ether Lords, I was able to bring some of my pics up on my phone, and he gave me some really great and helpful feedback and tips before Portishead came on. Such an unexpected bonus to the evening.
Despite my trepidations about the venue and the band perhaps pulling out of the tour because of terrible stage fright, that Sunday night concert was breathtaking. The sound was surprisingly good, the crowd stunningly diverse (there was everything from metalhead/hillbilly hybrids to women bearing uncanny resemblances to Vegas cocktail waitresses, albeit in French maid outfits), and Beth Gibbons managed to lose her infamous shyness and actually ran down off the stage to shake hands and hug people along the barrier.
Extraordinary.
It's funny how you can never overestimate the kindness of the people around you; I never thought it'd be possible to go to this show, especially after brunch out with a girlfriend, yet here I was, with Wonderful Boy staying home with the kids and transportation to the remote venue offered as well. Needless to say, this constant gratefulness and surprise will never go away, as well as the intense desire to give back and pay it forward.
In more ways than I can possibly list here, I am so fortunate, and can not possibly take any of it for granted.
A friend once murmured a sultry summer night eighteen years ago, "La vie... c'est bonne."
As are my awesome peeps.
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