I cannot tell you when my friendship with Deanna began. It can probably be traced back to a single tweet, sent long ago, but I couldn’t say for sure. The details are lost to time – I can only say that at some point we started talking, and one day I told my husband that I had made a friend through the internet.
He looked at me warily, and reminded me that the girl I had been talking to, the one so full of moxie and so quick with the clever retorts, might have been an elaborate work of fiction. I kept this in mind when I found out she and her family were stopping through Seattle, and wanted to meet up for lunch.
“She might be a balding man named Herb,” I told myself. “He might think that Kate Hudson is a talented actress, and he might enjoy Stephen Colbert unironically. ” It might be an awkward, unmitigated disaster.
It was not. She was exactly who she claimed to be, and more.
By the end of the afternoon (one largely spent quoting Anchorman) I realized that I could no longer refer to her as “a girl I’ve been talking to online”, but simply started calling her “my friend Deanna.”
She’s recently moved across the planet from me. Though I’ve only met her once, though it really shouldn’t make a difference, this saddens me. I’d love to sit down, have a slice of cake with her, and laugh about how Weinergate is quiet possibly the best name for a sex scandal, ever. But since I can’t do that, I asked her to blog for me, and lovely girl that she is, she said yes. So enjoy today’s post. It was written by my friend, Deanna.