BFFs

Meet OSB. She’s the shy, retiring wallflower sandwiched between mine and JoyceFrance’s big fancy peasant asses. Truth be told, OSB has a big PA herself, but she’s not as fond of showing it as we are.

We three met some six years ago now, at a small publishing house in the Monadnock region. I remember the first time I gave OSB a hug, as a thanks for a Christmas gift she gave me. It utterly freaked her out. Pre-baby, OSB and her then-boyfriend and now-husband bought a house. OSB then painted the dining room of that house 15 different times trying to get it perfect. She’s a little neurotic, but then, aren’t we all.

Anyhoo, in the years since we’ve met, we’ve only grown closer, and I consider these ladies two of my closest friends. We’ve shared joys and sorrows, and lots of meals. One thing that hasn’t changed from the beginning is the true pleasure JoyceFrances and I take in shocking OSB. The most recent event happened a few weekends ago, at JoyceFrances’ Albany row house. It was OSB’s birthday and we decided to wrap up my spectaculary huge shiny metallic blue handbag to give to her. Oh and inside the handbag we tucked a Ziploc bag that JoyceFrances had written “Happy Birthday, OSB!” on with a Sharpie.

I am only mildly embarrassed to tell you, dear readers, that I’d passed gas into that bag a couple of times the night before. "We'll all pass gas into it!" said JoyceFrances. "It'll be great!"

The next day, we gave OSB her "gift." She was dismayed by the shiny blue bag – “Isn’t this yours, McP,” she asked me. “Oo, oo, look inside!” I said. She did. JoyceFrances told her to open the Ziploc. “OK,” said OSB. As she cracked it open, I started shaking with laughter. “I farted in there! Hee hee!”

“What is wrong with you?” said OSB.