The epitome of status, redux

In one of my many other blogs (just kidding, there are only...uh...four? Seven? TWENTY THREE?? Let me change my answer!!!), I wrote about the epitome of status.

This evening, as I sat doing some homework, I got an email telling me that my Mrs. Prindables order would be arriving tomorrow.

The thing is, I didn't order a Mrs. Prindable's order for myself. And my husband didn't, either.

I'm pretty sure it was my very bestest friend in the whole wide world, and I want to scream with joy over it, but I cannot, because my half of the world is sleeping while the rain falls, and I can't be rude.

But holy shit, after over twenty years of holding those to the highest standard of what it means to be wealthy, I will finally have a Mrs. Prindable's apple.

Almost no gift has ever meant as much to me, because I never wanted anything this hard for this long. I will take loving pictures of it, and treasure it forever. Until I eat it. And then I will savor the memory.

Now if I could get my hands on some feathered heels and a mink stole, I'll be as opulent in those moments as I'd always imagined.

When I was thirteen, I wasn't terribly popular. I was gangly and awkward and kinda bitchy, and being an overly bookish know it all was the icing on my grammar nazi cake. On the way home from school one day, I saw a girl sitting by herself at the back of the bus. I couldn't tell you why, but I got up, sat down next to her, and said, "Hi! I'm Ondrea. I'm going to come over to your house, and we're going to be best friends." And we fuckin' were. Simple as that. She was weird, I was weird, we were weird together, and it's been the best friendship ever. Of course, we're still weird. But we can say fuck with a lot more authority now, and that's pretty cool.

I sent her a bottle of Colorado wine from my favorite winery a couple of years ago, and now I'm really going to have to think of something killer to send her.