You can pick your friends...

My dear sweet Jenny, my dear sweet Lynne, and I went to dinner tonight. We've been trying to make it out the last couple days and tonight all the stars were aligned. Lynne got to my house just before 6 PM and Jenny arrived about 15 minutes later.

It's rather a production getting me out the door: I hobble down the hallway, glide down the stairs, then -- with assistance -- step down from my threshold onto my front porch. I am wheeled from the porch to the waiting car. This evening there was an additional step incorporated into the procedure. After rising from the stair glide I was aware of an uncomfortable sensation, due to an invasion into restricted territory. A mere five months ago I was able to manage this problem on my own, but no longer. Before I got into the wheelchair I had to ask someone to please un-wedgie my shorts. Bless her heart, Lynne didn't hesitate and she picked my wedgie like the true friend she is. My cheeks, looking for every opportunity to test one's mettle, demanded a repeat performance after we returned home and I was hobbling down the hallway back to my bedroom. Lynne came to my aid once again.

Blowing my nose now requires that I use something far more substantial than a mere tissue. Dear sweet Jenny purchased a value pack of washcloths from the Dollar Store. These little terrycloth treasures -- known affectionately as "washcloths from hell" -- are a perfect size and texture for my nose blowing needs. (Note to the easily queasy: what follows isn't necessarily delicate.) Texture is important; the little terrycloth loops catch what I so often leave behind. While on the way to dinner this evening I had occasion to use a washcloth from hell but, as is often the case, additional texture effort was required. I asked dear sweet Jenny to flip open the visor mirror so I could inspect; that extra effort was necessary was horrifyingly evident. While the terrycloth loops went to work, we three not so prim and proper women conversed about how my eldest daughter is constantly (though surreptitiously) checking to make sure my nose is publicly acceptable. Who knew.

Friends, wedgies, and noses. How many can you pick?