I can make the runner stumble

Well fricken well.

Not only did I announce to the blogosphere that my friend Jen has a bun in her Easy Bake Oven, I also announced it to mutual friends who read my blog unbeknownst to me (you sneaks!).

What’s worse is that one of those friends happened to mention to Jen that her wonderful, faithful, darling friend moi has been featuring her for the last week.

Thankfully Jen was very understanding this morning—perhaps because I complimented her good looks so profusely. Heh, heh. But I do feel I owe her an apology. To make amends, I’d like to tell you why Jen rocks my world (am I a butt kisser? Maybe).

When Jen and I shared an apartment many years ago, we were very poor (this is the year she ate microwave popcorn for dinner), so we took a job catering a Christmas party in Greenwich for some extra money. The party was held at the home of a former Talbots catalog model and her very handsome, cowl-neck-sweater-wearing husband.

While Jen drove to the party, I drank the Mr. Boston Blackberry Brandy we’d picked up at the package store. When we got to the party (sprawling mansion doesn’t even begin to describe it), Jen slipped on the ice as she was pulling up her thigh highs (don’t ask) and fell into the wooden clothes drying rack she had in her trunk—eye first.

So there we were, me reeking of cheap booze and Jen holding one hand to her slouchy thigh highs and the other over her eye, which was bright red thanks to all the broken blood vessels. In a word: smokin!

I don’t know about you, but when I start to drink I like to keep going (especially if I am offering cheese puffs to very wealthy people), so we hid a bottle of brandy behind the magazines by the toilet (apparently rich people read in the can, too). In between ogling women’s Christmas diamonds and prepping brie bakes, we would take turns sneaking to the bathroom.

I don’t know about you, but when I start to drink I get belligerent (especially if I am offering cheese puffs to very wealthy people), so I started taking too many trips to the bathroom (you know, salve to my pauper wounds, blah blah). When the caterer asked Jen if I was all right, Jen sweetly told her I had a “killer period” and needed to frequently change my female products.

This is the best method for shutting people up: Offer them more than they want to know.

But the horrible woman was on to us. Maybe it was my slurred words or the fact that I stopped taking no for an answer when someone didn’t want a coconut shrimp. (Yah, I kind of just stood there awkwardly and swayed. Rich people hate that!) She banished me to the door and put me on coat duty.

Which is when I had the pleasure of taking the coat of Jen’s daytime boss, a man who’d have a hissy fit if he discovered Jen working an extra job because people would call him miserly, and we all know that people in small towns talk.

So Jen and I did what any drunk, cycloptic, faux-menstruating duo would do: We lifted a bottle of tequila and got the hell out of there.

Is it any wonder I love her so? Jen, this is for you.