Moe is 40!

She was the "new girl" at my high school. Pretty, blond, quiet. I think we might have chatted a time or two during Family Studies class, but I didn't know her, as a friend, when we were paired up for a project.

Our task - at the age of 16, in 1991 - was to visit a group in Toronto (the "BIG city" then, to my small-town, teenaged mind) that supported women seeking an abortion. Tentatively, as we made our plans and got permission from our parents to drive to Toronto, we became closer; chatting on the phone, spending time during the lunch hour hanging out by my locker.

Her name was Tracy, but I called her Moe. Still do. In fact, for years and years, my parents had no idea of her real name, assuming it was Maureen.



Me, Jen, Moe and Mel: Prom. Happy. Young.
Holy crap, look how YOUNG we were!

Anyway, in Toronto one Spring morning, we found the building, the floor, the people we needed to speak with. Armed with spiral notebooks, questions and nerves, we sat down with the staff, prepared to learn how to best support a woman who had made a difficult decision.

Suddenly, Moe shot up out of her seat and fled the room. I blinked in surprise and turned wide eyes to the women gathered near. "Uh....I don't know what she's doing. Sorry. I'll just ask her questions, OK?"

Even as I stammered through and tried to focus on the answers, I wondered where she'd gone, worried that she had. Began to feel sweat trickling down my back and then suddenly, I couldn't see. The room narrowed and then pitched and I knew that I HAD to leave. I tossed a quick "Thanks so much for your time!" at the bewildered staff and staggered from the office, blindly.

Felt along the cool wall of the hallway, knowing that an elevator waited nearby. All I could think was, "If I can just get outside, I'll be OK."

"Moe?" I croaked, pressing my face to the wall, sinking to the blessedly hard floor, terrified that I was having some kind of seizure, maybe a stroke.

"Here," she whispered, mere feet from me, huddled on the floor, too.

"What's happening?"

"I don't know. I just had to get out. I can't see!"

"Me neither!"

And we burst out laughing, groped for each other and held on tight. Eventually, my sight returned and hers did, too. Weak-kneed and trembling we made our way to the elevator, for all the world looking like two drunken tarts leaving a bar at last call.

Back on the street, we gulped in as much fresh air as we could, still clinging to one another and giggling.

19, at the airport, waiting to board my plane west...
 

Today, my Moe turns 40. Almost 25 years later, we still cling to each other and laugh like crazy - at stuff that's funny, at stuff that really isn't, except to us:

Between us, we've loved the same boy (that was awkward, but it's funny now) had four children, a few broken hearts, some husbands, some weddings, lost our minds, ourselves, each other. Her son was born on my wedding anniversary, my son was born on hers.



Me and Moe, October 4th, 2003

We've driven miles to hang out for a few hours, spent countless more on the phone, laughing inappropriately. We have cried, we have fought, sobbed with and for, hugged, fed, snuggled and propped each other up. She is my touchstone, in almost every memory I have and the keeper of my deepest, most delicious secrets.














Moe,

All these years, you've had my back, even when - perhaps especially when - I didn't have yours. You are loyal and kind and funny as hell. How I love that you have known me for all the person(s) I've been and that I have known you for the same. This friendship took root when we were mere children and I am so lucky to say that it has grown - as we have - into a wondrous, rich and layered one. 

That our children will know and discover the world together - as we did - makes my heart happy. Thank you, for all of it: the past, the present, the future.

Mostly, thank you for and long drives to nowhere and the journey to here. For calling me, for taking my call even when you're mad, for making me laugh so hard I stop breathing. For snuggling with me, pouring me baths, sending me your book drafts, trusting me with your heart, your fears, your dreams.

You are my Moe-Moe. You are 40. You are fabulous.

And I love you.


Lizzie-Girl

Monica Bata Memorial Weekend: The 2012 Edition

As July gave way to August, with two glorious days stretching long before us, we gathered - Dolphin and Wenchy and I - to celebrate Monica Bata Memorial Weekend.

By the numbers, the weekend that honours the power and scope of female friendship, looked like this:

8. Bags of chips with dip, trays of veggies and fruit and packages of yummy, sinful cakes and tarts that Dolphin and I tossed into our grocery cart last Friday morning. Giddy, we were. Giddy at the prospect of a weekend away, eating, drinking, talking. Giddy I was, at being in a grocery store without the children, who beg for such treats and to whom I usually say, "Absolutely not!"

To Dolphin I said, "I don't think we have enough dip. Here are two more flavours."

2. Coolers we jammed full with trays and booze and ice. Bags we packed with only the basics: bathing suits, shorts, pj's, our newly-printed Monica Bata Memorial Weekend t-shirts:

* Designed by Dolphin's husband, the logo on the T-shirts is a clever nod to the film "Thelma and Louise" and is a slightly-modified version of the hood ornament which adorned the 1966 Thunderbird the women drove off a cliff. Our nicknames emblazon the bottom of each shirt and we wore them proudly all weekend long. *



2.5 : Hours. That's how long it took for Mark to realize that we'd left our 8 bags of chips, yummy cakes and dips behind, call Dolphin's husband and for him to then text her with the news:

Naturally, we stopped in Bobcaygeon and bought more. Monica Bata Weekend cannot happen unless there are tons and tons of "bad-for-us" bits to munch through, in between the drinking and the laughter.

5:  Upon arrival, the number of minutes it took us to unpack and unfurl our awesome custom-made t-shirts:

Wenchy and Dolphin!

     

Wenchy and Belly!

300: The number of days we crammed into the first four hours together, conversations spilling into the next as we brought each other up-to-date and settled into comfy clothes and Muskoka chairs on the dock.

2: The number of turtles living underneath the dock.

0: Times I swam in the lake, due to the aforementioned turtles living underneath the dock. Yes, I am a wuss. Please see last month's post about lakes and things that live in 'em, to better understand my paranoia.

To compensate, I drank two extra Palm Bay spritzers and counted the number of times I thought I saw a shadow of something sinister lurking under the dock where I lay, lazily lapping the water with my free hand. (17)

4: Cups of Baileys with coffee I consumed on Saturday morning, watching the day dawn from the dock. In Ontario, during summer, there is nothing prettier than this:

1: Effing hornet that DIVE-BOMBED my forehead just before lunch, rendering me practically speechless with pain and feeling miserable for several hours thereafter. Stupid nature. If it ain't leeches, it's hornets.

3: Palm Bay vodka-spritzers, 1 Allegra, 2 Aleve and 1 icepack later, I felt juuuust fine:

Yes, I tied the ice-pack to my head. What? You would have, too.

45: Minute nap I took in a hammock, in the middle of the day. After a morning on the dock drinking Baileys, the SECOND best thing about cottaging in Ontario is the napping:

Just call me "Lounging Lizzie!" Bliss!

591: Times I thought, "God, I love these women!" and "Holy crap, we talk a LOT!" and "I think we may have purchased too many bags of chips..."


26: Times Dolphin nudged me with her foot so that I'd stop snoring, snuggled next to her each night.

1: Phone call I have in to my doctor's office, to request a sleep apnea test.

77: The number of times I thought about not putting that in this piece before deciding that I don't care. If getting this snoring thing looked at means I get more summer weekends snuggling with my Dolphin and sitting by my friends on a dock, then I'll do it, CPAP machine and all.

362: Days until NEXT summer, when we get to do this all again.

1: Wish I have for you, dear reader: May the women who embody the spirit of Monica Bata in your life be as wise and good and beloved as the ones in mine. And may you celebrate those friendships often and well.

Love,
Belly

Monica Bata and Why I Dig Chicks

Spent last night at Wenchy's cottage and it was glorious. From the time Dolpin and I arrived early yesterday morning, until we left late this afternoon, the three of us did nothing but eat, laugh and talk.

Well, and drink.

Over Baileys with coffee (not coffee with Baileys, you'll notice. It's an important distinction when one is cotttaging sans children) we caught each other up: Dolphin and Wenchy are both professional working mums whose friendship was forged while being two of a handful of women in a male-dominated field and they've remained close ever since.

I have no "professional working mother" stories to share, but am full of funny, pithy observations about parenthood, I brought chips and I like washing the dishes, so they let me tag along for these mini-holidays.

Over lunch (bags of chips and dip with sugar donuts and strawberry daiquiris), I told them about my blogging friend Kelly's new blog, "I Survived the Mean Girls", which is a place for girls (and grown women) to share their experiences with mean girls and bullies. It's a collaborative site and Kelly encourages readers to share their own stories - to inspire, to find comfort, to heal.

Wenchy and Dolphin were as fascinated by the concept as I was to learn their stories of childhood cruelty and adolescent angst. So, we refilled our glasses and regaled one another with tales from our own childhoods, describing in vivid, agonizing detail, all the wrongs that were done.

And then, two or three drinks in, the stories began to change. Positive women by nature, we stopped revealing the crummy bits and began to remember the good stuff:

Dolphin felt completely invisible in high school until Grade 13 History class, when an older girl beckoned her over with a friendly smile and patted the seat next to her: "Sit here, with us!"

That girl was me and I was so touched and awed that such a small gesture had made such a difference for her that I burst into tears. Yeah, I'm a goober like that. Three drinks and I'm a sappy mess.

Our hostess, Wenchy, is a warm and wise woman, whose adult life is far, far removed from her hardscrabble beginnings. She puts me in mind of spunky Li'l Orphan Annie, if Daddy Warbucks had never come into the picture. And you can bet your bottom dollar that she's got some tales to tell.

So, as I dried my eyes on the dog, Wenchy offered her own example of the power of friendship:

A veteran of  B.C.'s  foster care system, Wenchy was accustomed to being the new kid in school. She never attended the same school for more than two years and grew a thick skin over her sensitive heart - "never let 'em see you cry", might have been her motto. She was not, however, immune to the tears of her friend Stacey, who was nervous about starting Junior High in a new school, while Wenchy moved onto to high school.

High School began a week after the Junior High, so Wenchy hatched a plan. She enrolled herself at Stacey's school, adopting the name "Monica Bata" as her own, and registering for all of Stacey's classes.

At roll call each morning, Wenchy dutifully answered "Here!" when the teacher called for Monica Bata and stayed by Stacey's side as she gradually relaxed enough to make some new friends. When the week was over and Wenchy was satisfied that Stacey would be alright, she simply nodded and walked out the school doors for the last time. On Monday, she would walk through the doors of a strange school herself, but her concern was first and foremost, for her friend.

Dolphin and I howled with shocked laughter at young Wenchy's bravado - our shared small-town Ontario upbringing had never included not knowing our classmates or living with people who were not our parents. We applauded Wenchy's tale-spinning and cheers'd her alter ego, Monica Bata.

We were still laughing about it over dinner (Greek salad, souvlaki and cranberry/vodkas) when Wenchy claimed that if we did call up Stacey, all these years later, and asked for Monica Bata, that Stacey's first and immediate response would be, "HERE!" before collapsing into giggles. I was tempted to convince Wenchy to let me call her, just so we could hear firsthand how the power of female friendship resonated in her life.

Maybe next year, we'll call. Next year, when we gather in cottage country to recharge from our busy lives as wives and mothers, employees and bosses, to celebrate each other's spirit and to simply "be."

Until then, I'd like to officially call our girls' night "The Monica Bata Memorial Weekend" - to honour the kind of friend I wish every girl could have and the ones I am blessed to call mine.

And you? Who was your Monica Bata?