You can’t come over and play anymore


I’ve been meaning to write this blog post for a while, partially because I know it will annoy the shit out of him and also because he makes me laugh like crazy.

My guy BFF. He’s me only in guy form, which is scary and amazing all at the same time. We met many years ago back in college when his now wife became my college roommate. (Now, I have to give a quick shout out to her, because without her we would have never met and she’s pretty fucking great herself.) But he’s also Hubs B’s BFF too, which is how I met Hubs B in the first place. Never mind my incestuous story of how we all met, let me get to why Guy BFF isn’t allowed to come over and play anymore.

We live about two hours away from each other and now that we both have kids, we don’t spend as much time together as we used to. So basically we cram six months of catching up into one weekend every time we’re together, which generally means we consume enough alcohol to last until the next time we meet up. Hence why he can’t come over anymore.

Four kids, a dog, a cat and a pretty significant hangover make for a rough next morning and I, of course, like to blame all of this on him. “Don’t be alarmed,” he says, “But someone broke into your house and drank all your booze.” That next morning I rarely find his jokes funny, seeing as I’m trying to keep all that acidic OJ from resurfacing.

His sense of humor rivals that of some of the best comics and when I’m not feeling like I was hit by a Mack truck, I laugh my ass off. He makes whatever I’m drinking come out my nose, he makes me laugh till I cry, wet my pants or until I can’t speak. He’s one of those people who can take any joke and make it better, dirtier or even disgusting. I’ve seen him insult an entire room in a second, which only makes me love him more.

Wherever he is I am because I don’t want to miss what he’s going to say next. Hubs B likes to call him a beatnik lumberjack because Guy BFF has a love of plaid shirts and goatees. I just like to call him hilarious. He tells me he has to be funny because he’s fat otherwise he’s just fat.

Once when I unwillingly dragged him to the spa with me, he told me that if I farted that everyone in the relaxation room would blame him because he’s the “fat guy.” Making a disgusted face and using the voice of an annoyed valley girl, “Ugh, that fat guy farted. He’s so gross.” This made me laugh so hard that it was no longer the relaxation room.

He likes to put on my clothes and dance around singing “Fat Guy in a Little Coat.” Once he wore a pink sweatshirt of mine that had cat ears on the hood and walked around meowing with his hands shoved in the pockets. I’m pretty sure I peed in my pants.

Beyond all his hilarities, he’s the most kind, generous, caring guy I know. Who else would pick all the marshmallows out the Lucky Charms for me? Who else would drive a half a block with me to the donut shop, order a dozen and eat them all before we even get home? How about walking down the beach with me collecting shells, but him doing all the work because he knows I have an aversion to wet things? Certainly not Hubs B, he’d never be this indulgent. I lucked out when we became friends because he brings far more to our relationship than I ever could.

So, I guess I’m lying when I say he can’t come over anymore. As much as I hate that morning after headache, I’d miss his crass, crazy, and funny as hell ass.

This is my favorite picture of us. He’s going to kill me for posting this…