Obviously I'm a hypocrite.

A few summers ago as we sipped strawberry lemonade beneath a warm Oregon sun, I announced to my husband in that matter of fact, willful Emily voice, "I will never write my own blog." When pressed why, I muttered something about bloggers being navel gazing narcissists, and besides, "too expected." (I was in my second year of grad school for nonfiction and feeling haughty). So here I am, one baby later, no gainful employment to speak of (who has time when there's always banana to scrape off the floor?) and too many postponed essays to count. Hell, I need an outlet and this will suffice.
I am currently reading a book about failed friendships called "The Friend that Got Away." These are riveting philosophical "how was it that we could confuse friendship with obsession" type essays exploring the ways we bend and break in our girl on girl relationships. Whatever. None has really grabbed me and I've read 5 or 6. I am reading this book because I wish my best friend would softly, whisper-like, tip toe off-stage and never return again. She needs to go away and I need a vacation. I don't know how to tell her this. She's lived in my house for the past two months--making out with my husband's best friend on our living room couch while my one year old takes his afternoon nap, leaving cigarette butts on our back deck. Her stench is slowly, steadily creeping into the crevices of my life. I can no longer locate my salad spinner and suddenly there's shitty low calorie beer in the fridge. We were her first stopping point in her pending divorce so I've certainly had the opportunity to have the discussion and ever so gently kick the bitch out. But each time I've tried, she's preempted me with another physical ailment. Another headache, this time radiating from the neck, another trip to the physical therapist, this time to fix a floating rib. She has been working solidly, triumphantly to rid herself of her addiction to prescription painkillers but in this tortured process, has morphed into a hypochondriac, a Munchausen's patient, or much worse, a self-pitying, nonresponsive stranger. And I don't care. She is, no, was my best friend and I want her gone.
This gaping hole where lazy days spent in bathing suits and naughty jokes used to be has screwed up my sleep and made me surly for weeks. My lungs grow tight and my butt scrunches every time I think of her. That's her saying by the way, as in "that stupid saying just makes my butt scrunch." But in the end, this best friend break-up is but a pinprick in the otherwise glossy silk fabric of my life. Up next could be anything: Packing for Mexico (thank God Monkey Boy loves the tiny matchbox cars), Am I pregnant? (It would appear Seasonale birth control doesn't work) and just how does one convince Grandma to wave bye bye to the Bay Area and hello sleepy Oregon so Mama can have a few hours to write and maybe grab a mojito now and then? Currently we're thinking the soft sell/cheeky power point presentation is the way to go. Smiling Monkey Boy in front of our quaint little bungalow, pensive MB propped up in his first apple tree, or pajama'd MB pointing gleefully at this year's one and only snowfall. (This kid blows me away, he's such a freakin' ham in front of the camera. It's kinda scary. Old soul scary.) But don't let the idyllic settings and grinning, photogenic baby fool you, Grandma. Oh no. Monkey boy may be happy, but he still loves and misses his favorite Grandma. The one who brought "Doggie" into our lives, Doggie, the soft, blanket-like stuffed animal whom MB clutches lovingly, desperately as he peers up at us from his crib moments before he emits that death screach howl. Doggie is, out of 2,612 plastic ducks, plush bears and annoying turtle flutes, the only inanimate object that MB truly adores. Doggie quells the beast that is my child at bedtime. I think Grandma could be the human version of Doggie. He's a calmer, more serene version of himself in her presence. Less crack monkey and more sweet, cherubic boy. If the slide show doesn't work, I'll be forced to resort to outright begging. I can't believe I'm admitting this, but I want to live near my mother. It's taken me 32 years to say this but my name is Emily and I do love and need, really need, my mother.
In short, this best friend break-up trauma is keeping me from focusing on more important issues. For example, why don't we have rent-a-Grandma? There's got to be a market for that. Maybe not rent, why not Adopt a Grandma, a nonprofit that partners sweet, goodnatured people over sixty with a lot of time on their hands with adorable babies and precocious toddlers that have parents who are too cheap to hire sitters. We could cook them dinner. It's win, win.