Forgive me Heather, for I have Sinned.

When tardiness is inexcusable, there's no point in mentioning excuses; valid as they may be. This is unfortunate, because I have some really good ones. Not excuses so much as actual reasons. Really, really good reasons, but that's neither here nor there.

Not since I accidentally made the kids' cinnamon toast with cayenne pepper have I felt so guilty. As one of my favorite Tori Amos songs says, "I've got enough guilt to start my own religion." It has finally started keeping me up at night. Even though I tell people that I lost my conscience in law school, every once in awhile, it comes back to remind me that I'm not all bad.

See, almost a year ago, I made the mistake of offering up special birthday blog posts to honor the handful of my oldest and dearest friends who made the dangerous lifestyle choice to maintain contact with me. The first post was actually on time. The second one was eight days late. The third one was 12 days late. Well, this is the fourth and (thank God I don't have any more long-suffering friends) last. It comes 21 grueling days late. (And yes, I have had to keep changing that number for every day that passes without my finishing this tribute. And even as I type, it's almost midnight.) Now, I know that these past 21 days have been difficult, nay, harrowing for everyone involved. I can only hope that this offering will be so stellar that it will only be seen as well worth the wait--like a fine wine, or perhaps a clean rest stop on a long road trip.

One reason it has taken me so long to complete this is that I couldn't stop adding to my list of things I remember and things I love about Heather. Then there are all the things I learned from her. All of them good.

I met Heather in our 10th grade French class. She was the new girl from California. She wore bright blue mascara and a permanent gold chain around her waist. Immediately, I didn't just want to be her friend. I wanted to be her. We loved our French teacher, but I'm not sure the teacher knew that, seeing as how we were so disrespectful in class. I'm not quite sure why, but it had something to do with the way the sound of the language mixed with the two of us making eye contact. One day we laughed ourselves into tears in the middle of class at the simple question, "Quelle heure est-il?" We can still laugh at that and not really know why. It has no possible alternative dirty meaning that I can think of (believe me, I've tried), and nothing in it rhymes with the name of any part of human genitalia (even when you use colloquialisms or obscenities). I guess we just found that asking what time it is in French was one of the most hilarious things we had ever heard in the first 16 years of our lives.

In high school, Heather and I were known for a little book of pictures we put together. Some might have thought we were somewhat morbid, others may have said we were crying out for attention, but the rest probably described us as serial killers in the making. (God knows that kind of behavior would warrant some kind of official investigation these days.) See, it all started like this: I got my driver's license before Heather did, so I would pick her up on the way to school. One morning, on what was normally a virtually empty residential street, I found myself at the end of a long line of cars. There were no flashing lights up ahead; there were no cars pulled over to the side of the road; nor was there any construction or detour sign. As I approached, I noticed that drivers were steering around something to get by. I then discovered that the reason they were moving so slowly was not just to get by, but also to gawk in awe at a vision that would certainly haunt them the rest of the day, if not the rest of their lives. Like it has mine and probably Heather's. It was a hellaciously gigantic, cracked-open, on-its-back, dead armadillo.

Priceless. When I got to Heather's house I couldn't wait to tell her about it. We knew what we had to do. And that was, of course, to preserve it on film for eternity (or at least for the lifetime of a Polaroid picture.) I can't remember whether I just (ever-so-serendipitously) happened to have the camera in the back seat of my Volvo, or if we picked one up from Heather's house. After having read the previous sentence, I do hope it was Heather's camera, because there's just something not right about a 16-year-old girl with a Polaroid in the back seat of her car. (Maybe I wanted to be prepared in case of a UFO sighting. It could happen.) So anyway, that first picture led to a series of masterfully-photographed, multi-species roadkill in various stages of decomposition. I could spend another few paragraphs on the book that made us popular for all the wrong reasons, but I really need to move on.

Now, here are just a few of the favorite things I remember from our time in high school:

Her stepmonster who kept a carton of Marlboro Reds in the refrigerator; her Mickey Mouse phone we used to dial *69 on; smoking Swisher Sweets on our way to the gym in her red convertible VW beetle;
drinking lemonade and Southern Comfort
on our way to school while we sang Tom Petty songs at the tops of our lungs; and making a chocolate mousse for French class that turned out more like brownie batter because we overspiked it.

A few years ago when we got together, she pulled out a box of cards she has kept. She showed me a birthday card I gave her when she turned 16. I wrote something like, "We have at least ten more years of partying left in us!!!" When you're 16, ten years seems like a lot. Little did I know that we actually had more than 20 years of it left in us--depending upon your definition of "partying" of course.


This posting would not be complete without my mentioning that I have always harassed her about being a bit of a cat person. As some of you may know, I'm not fond of felines. I'm really not much of a canine person either, come to think of it. I thought about buying these items as birthday gifts for her, but frankly, even on clearance, they were too expensive.
Plus, she would have received them so late that she really wouldn't have appreciated them anyway. However, I'd like to show them here just to say that, it's really the thought that counts. Heather, if you would like to order these items, let me know and I can send you a link to the reputable catalogs I found them in.

I have also always given Heather a hard time about carrying the tiniest purse ever. Apparently, they call them "wristlets." (I actually know this, but I'm feigning ignorance so as to give the impression that I'm too cool to understand something so gay.) In fact, I like to refer to her "wristlet" as a "fanny pack." She doesn't see the humor in that at all. I'm really a little bit jealous of the fact that she can get by with only a wristlet. She's a minimalist. She needs no make-up. She carries maybe a driver's license, a credit card, a key, or a little cash. She has no need for the things I have to carry in my purse, like lipstick, a mirror, Altoids, and at least four bottles of prescription drugs.

She is beautiful inside and out. Especially on the outside, which really makes me sick. She never had any kids to tear up her body or wear out her mind or suck the very spirit out of her soul. She's a vegetarian. One of those healthy things I envy, but could never emulate. She makes the best guacamole I have ever tasted. And she taught me how to accept compliments. Before I learned from her how to be gracious, I would reject compliments because I felt that they were usually insincere and always undeserved. To this day, when someone offers a compliment, I simply say, "thank you," believe that it is sincere and deserved, and think of Heather. She is an amazing conversationalist, too. When you talk to her, you know she is listening, and not busy thinking about what she is going to say next. She will not only ask questions, but then she will ask follow-up questions. And she makes you think. Sometimes I feel like I'm being interviewed, and I like that. She's also great at stumping you with "would you rather..." type questions that other people could never dream up.


She makes amazing pieces of pottery. She gave these to me as birthday presents. And I received them right on time. Her thoughtfulness makes me feel even more unworthy and selfish and careless. And what really upsets me is that I bet she'll even forgive me, just like Jesus would.

Heather, I promise I'll never go so long without showing you how much I love and appreciate you. Unless of course you have already written me off.