the guest list:
zooey deschanel : drew barrymore : jessica simpson : tori spelling : the pioneer woman : ellen page : wanda sykes : kate hudson : keri russell : liv tyler : whitney cummings : reese witherspoon : maya angelou : lauren graham : melissa mccarthy : jewel : sheryl crow : sherri shepherd : amy poehler : ellen degeneres :
we’d talk about being famous, paparazzi, & how we hate when US Weekly compares us with Who Wore It Best.
i’d serve something scrumptious from pw’s cookbooks, simple. homemade. devine.
we’d retire to my moroccan themed patio, and sip on mojitos ( i mean diet mojitos), joking about how nice it is that our nannies could watch the kids/dogs/iguanas for the week, while we perused the sites of diane von furstenberg, anthropologie & nordstrom, buying up a storm, not a thought to the prices. & how karl lagerfield really needs to lay off on the tanning situation.
then, as we tweeted & clucked the night away, they would tell me how wonderful it is to have such a down-to-earth friend. one who can shimmy with the best, & still loves a good campfire in the chimenea, and have i met their trainer yet? he is the BEST.
we’d give hugs & promises to return to tori’s house for a reunion sooner-rather-than-later, & we’d discuss how to keep in touch better.
if only i were a celebrity, & these women could be my friends (*oh, and i may need to be famous, and live in nyc, la or another faboosh city).
sure, i might have a better wardrobe, a personal chef (heck, i’d settle for a dishwasher), a shoe collection worthy of a museum.
i’d have to eat less carbs. DEAL OVER RIGHT THERE–>NOBODY MAKES BABY EAT LESS CARBS BUT BABY.
i wouldn’t have stories about going to eat in our pj’s on a lady sunday afternoon, countless laughter fits about who-only-knows-what, & pics of us in dozens of bathrooms this side of the mississippi where we curiously covered our double chins (okay, that was just me). i wouldn’t know their stories, inside & out, of first loves, of boys that should be banned from memories, cars that were dangerously cool, & late night study/snack-fests. or their family histories, nephews’ names, stories that became my own story.
in other words, i couldn’t be friends with all of those celebs above, because my heart is so full with the wonderful ladies that i choose to call my friends, that i simply don’t have enough room.
so, instead of wanting a skinnier body to clothe, a fancier checking account total (although an all-healthy-full-fridge-all-the-time remains a dream), or an iguana, i’ll keep my hard earned, true blue girlfriends that i’ve collected, some i’ve known for a few years, some a decade. (a few even longer).
because no matter what kind of envy i do suffer from on a daily, weekly, or yearly basis, it is never one of friends.
they’ve laughed with me, at me, & cried for me & in front of me.
they are beautiful, & they can’t be compared, because instead of a celebrity, i wannabe like them. moral: friends. i got ’em. i’m keeping ’em. and no mega-watt superstar person is ever going to compare to my girlfriends. (although let’s be serious, if drew barrymore ever asked to hang out, she’d be in the circle ASAP, but she’s the only one). 🙂
enjoy your friends today! tell them that they make your world better! to all my girlfriends: you know who you are, let’s grab a mojito soon, & thanks for being you!